


There's a Kind of Magic in Masks

by incognitotoro



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Anonymous Sex, But in what order?, Cinderella Elements, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Masks, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:55:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 90,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25074958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incognitotoro/pseuds/incognitotoro
Summary: Masks conceal one face, but they reveal another.The tenth anniversary of the end of the war is being marked by a lavish masquerade spread over three nights. It’s the event of the decade, but most importantly, it’s a perfect opportunity for her to escape the impossible pressure of being Hermione Granger.Unfortunately, it’s also the perfect opportunity to escape the endless shame of being Draco Malfoy.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 432
Kudos: 856





	1. You Are Cordially Invited

**Author's Note:**

> As always, any comments or constructive criticism is very welcome!  
> Also, I have a tumblr now, so come say hi if you're into that sort of thing :) incognitotoro.tumblr.com
> 
> The title is from Maskerade, by the eternally awesome Terry Pratchett. "There's a kind of magic in masks. Masks conceal one face, but they reveal another."

_Ms Hermione Granger,_   
_You are cordially invited to a masquerade ball commemorating the tenth anniversary of the end of the second Wizarding War. Three nights of magic, mystery and merriment to celebrate unity between all magical creeds and peoples._   
_From 7pm on the nights of: Thursday 4th May, Friday 5th May, and Saturday 6th May_   
_At Rosellin Manor, Devon_   
_Please RSVP via owl to Cicely Rosellin, or Narcissa Malfoy_   
_Detailed dress code and guidelines on magical disguises and costume can be found overleaf._

_Choose your mask and wear it well,_   
_So your true identity, none can tell,_

  
The damn thing had been sitting on Hermione’s desk for a week, the enchanted lettering sparkling at her out of the corner of her eye and reminding her that time was running out to RSVP. She had to go, she knew that, she just really, really didn’t want to. She didn’t hate the concept; indeed if Ginny or Luna had decided to throw a masquerade for one of their birthdays she would have been all for it, but this was business, not pleasure, no matter how much the festive invitation sparkled at her. Actually, it was worse than business; it was politics, and Hermione got quite enough of that at work without it invading her weekends as well. Originally, they had wanted her to make a speech, but that was where she drew the line, and Harry was so very much better at that than her anyway. It wasn’t the public speaking that unnerved her, more just the strange celebrity she had never quite got used to. She regularly spoke forcefully and (hopefully) eloquently to the Wizengamot, she’d even taught transfiguration at Hogwarts for a week once, as a favour to Minerva when the new teacher couldn’t start right away. She had no problem speaking in public, as long as it was about something. The speech at the party would have been about nothing; pretty words and hopeful sentiment to elevate the atmosphere and get a good cheer from the guests.

  
Maybe she was just being overly grumpy. After all, the world had changed, things were better… mostly. There wasn’t anything close to the darkness that had lurked in the background during her Hogwarts years, but if there was one thing she’d learnt in the decade that had passed since the end of the war, it was that fixing something just meant that you got to concentrate on a new problem. True, she’d much rather be dealing with the comparatively minor policy issues she saw these days than the rampant bigotry that used to permeate all the way through wizarding society, but she had to admit, the monotony and the Sisyphean tasks were starting to get her down. On top of that, there was a strange, irritating dissonance between the public perception of her, her work persona, and her actual personality. The public saw her as this perfect figurehead; the wizarding world’s golden girl, and whenever she dared to do anything that contradicted that image people seemed disappointed or annoyed, as if she was the once that was bucking propriety by having the audacity to do anything other than smile silently, wave and nod daintily at everything Harry said. 

  
Work was a different story of course. The war might have been over, but the Ministry of Magic was still saturated with the same old windbags who didn’t like to change the upholstery on their sofa, let alone embark on a complete overhaul of outdated policies. Hermione had no patience for them dragging their heels, and she’d never been one for beating around the bush, so she’d pushed and she’d shouted, she’d used every trick and privilege she had got by being a war hero, and eventually they had surrendered. Unfortunately, by that point the rest of the Ministry had started talking, and before long everyone knew that Hermione Granger had something to prove, and Merlin help you if you got in her way. She had never meant to develop such a harsh reputation, but by the time she realised it, it was too late, and people seemed to see her efforts to be more friendly as outliers rather than her actual personality. It wasn’t the end of the world really, she had plenty of real friends outside work, but it did mean that people tended to be a bit more combative with her, and Merlin, it was exhausting always having to be the one swimming against the tide. 

  
The invitation glittered at her obnoxiously, and she paused her report for a moment, absentmindedly tapping the nib of her pen on the parchment. Under different circumstances it might have been a bit of a relief, putting on a mask and just having fun with none of the baggage that was usually attached to her name, but the damn thing was being planned by Narcissa Malfoy of all people. Oh, Cicely Rosellin might have her name on the invitation, but Hermione had met her a few years ago, and that woman was so out of touch she may as well have stepped right out of a time machine from the 1800s. There was no way Cicely could pull something like this off on her own, half of the magical community in Britain was coming to this party, and the paperwork alone would have taken hundreds of hours of work, an enormous network of contacts and enough charitable donations to politically advantageous causes to make the event unmissable. No, this had Narcissa’s fingerprints all over it, and that meant that she’d have to make awkward small-talk with all three of them as if they hadn’t watched her get tortured on their living room floor. Joy.

  
If she was honest with herself though, it wasn’t Lucius or Narcissa that really bothered her. She had spoken to Draco Malfoy exactly four times since he had properly re-entered the Wizarding World seven years ago, and none of those occasions had been pleasant. He had thanked her, Harry and Ron for speaking at his trial, sounding overly formal and not managing to meet Hermione’s eyes. Then, a year later they had run into each other at the Ministry, and the polite small-talk had lasted about a minute, before one of them had inadvertently insulted the other one. She didn’t even remember who had started it. They managed to get up to nearly five minutes at Narcissa’s last two soirees before they had ended up snapping and snarking at each other. Something about his mannerisms still raised her hackles, even all these years later, and she supposed she should just be grateful their paths didn’t cross very often. Come to that, she should definitely be grateful that this stupid party was being held at Cicely’s country house rather than Malfoy Manor. 

  
Hermione sighed and smothered a yawn as she scratched out the last few sentences of the report. She just needed to bite the bullet and RSVP. There wasn’t any getting out of it anyway, but why on earth did it have to be three nights? It was bad enough that she was being dragged along to this farce, but the Ministry would be essentially running on a skeleton crew for those days, and it had been incredibly disruptive to her work. And now she’d have to go bloody shopping. Over the years she had accrued a not insignificant collection of black-tie apparel, but it was ten years since the end of the war; it was a unique occasion, and that unfortunately demanded a unique dress, rather than just recycling the dresses she had worn for the last few events. Plus, there was the whole mess of frippery that she’d have to deal with regarding the masks. Ugh.   
She had used to enjoy dressing up, but it seemed that time and experience had sapped that from her as well. 

***

The first night of the ball approached with alarming speed, and to Hermione’s mild irritation, it seemed that the entire Ministry could speak of nothing else. She was trying really hard to seem like she was just as excited as everyone else, but she had a feeling that she was coming off as patronising. Maybe she could use a night off after all…

  
To her surprise it seemed that a lot of people were really getting into the mask aspect of it, the invitation had specified that while masks were mandatory, many other forms of magical disguise were encouraged and apparently many of the guests intended to make full use of this indulgence. The disguises should be superficial enough that they could be removed quickly and easily at the end of the night, but even that gave the guests an enormous array of charms and potions to choose from. Ginny didn’t care so much about being recognised, but in the interest of Harry’s anonymity she had agreed to change her hair and voice, since no matter how good Harry’s disguise was, it would be a dead giveaway if he was kissing Ginny Weasley. Ginny had tried to convince Harry to go all out and try and trick a few of his least favourite people into telling him what they really thought of him, but he said he was happy enough just to not have people stare at him for one night. Luna had grand plans involving a full face mask of a dragon, including delicate, enchanted wings at her shoulder blades that Hermione had helped her with the last time they’d all met up. She wasn’t sure about Ron and the rest of the Weasley boys, since they all seemed as sick of talking about it as she was, though she dreaded to think what chaos George was planning. He might be a respected businessman now, but she knew better than to believe that meant that he was respectable.

  
Hermione herself had been reluctant to get into it. The whole disguise thing seemed somehow… juvenile. She felt silly, and she hated feeling silly, so she had settled on a simple eye mask of dark blue lace which she fully intended to transfigure each night to match her dress, and resolved not to bother with disguising her hair or voice. She was sick to death of feeling like she was performing for everyone anyway. Despite her general cantankerousness though, she really did love the dresses she had bought. Tonight’s dress was a simple, navy blue gown with a sweetheart neckline and a hint of lace around the hem. She was sure it wouldn’t be anywhere near as extravagant as many of the outfits she would see tonight, but it was beautifully fitted and surprisingly comfortable, and that was good enough for her. And it certainly didn’t hurt that it made her boobs look incredible. 

  
As she checked that she had everything she would need in her magically extended bag, she wondered how many times she had transfigured and re-transfigured it over the years. The charm was technically illegal after all, and now she worked at the Ministry she couldn’t get caught casting a new one, so the once-beaded bag had remained with her since Bill’s wedding, all those years ago. Despite her earlier misgivings, Hermione was actually a little excited now that she was five minutes away from apparating to Devon. Her hair was behaving tonight, cascading down her back in loose curls with the help of generous amounts of Sleekeazy’s, her dress was flattering and she actually quite liked the way her delicate mask accentuated her eyes. She looked good, and that knowledge went a long way towards improving her mood. With a final glance around her apartment, she took a deep breath and disapparated. 


	2. False Start

When Hermione appeared at the gates of the Rosellin Estate, she couldn’t help but let out a gasp. It was barely five past seven, but it was obvious even from here that the party was already in full swing. Magical floating lanterns in every colour of the rainbow dotted the pathway to the house, painting the gardens in flickering golden light which was was accentuated by the dramatic shadows cast by the setting sun. Silvery ribbons fluttered from the trees and benches, and she could see matching banners draped over the main house.

A chattering group of guests passed her on their way inside, and as soon as she set eyes on them, Hermione knew she had been right; her ballgown may as well have been jeans and a t-shirt next to the lavish explosions of taffeta and tulle those women were wearing. The men’s outfits were a bit less extravagant from the neck down at least, but their masks were just as showy as the others. Hermione gave them a slightly nervous nod of greeting and tried to remember what her friends had told her about their disguises. She followed the group through the gate and as she walked up the pathway, she began to regret coming alone. At least if she had apparated in with Harry and Ginny she wouldn’t have to spend the first hour of the party trying to figure out if she actually knew anyone. She needn’t have worried though, because a few minutes later she heard a familiar voice.

“Hermione! That is you, isn’t it?”

“Neville!” she exclaimed, feeling a surge of relief as he emerged from a bench by the side of the path. He was beaming and wearing black dress robes and a plain white mask that made him look a bit like the phantom of the opera. Hermione was profoundly glad to see that she wasn’t the only one who had erred on the side of subtlety when choosing an outfit for tonight.

“Oh, good,” he said, giving her a quick hug, “I made the mistake of arriving alone and I’m really not looking forward to-”

“I know! God, Neville, you know I was just thinking exactly the same thing.”

“Really?” he asked, sounding relieved.

“Yeah, it’s a bit weird, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Shall we go in together then?”

“Absolutely,” she said, smiling.

As they walked, Hermione updated him on what she knew about their friends’ disguises, though she suspected that both she and Neville were over-thinking this. It wouldn’t be the first time she had dreaded a social engagement, only to have a great time once she got there. Anyway, she had found Neville, hadn’t she? They couldn’t be the only two people who hadn’t gone all out. They climbed the stone staircase up to the house together, carefully stepping around a couple sitting on the steps, somehow already drunk and giggling to each other. If Hermione had thought the gardens were lavishly decorated, when she finally stepped inside the main house she realised she hadn’t known the half of it. Every inch of the place glittered and shimmered, from the elaborate floating chandelier to the impossibly delicate champagne flutes that seemed to populate every surface in sight.

“Wow,” breathed Neville beside her.

She just murmured her agreement, momentarily speechless by the sudden assault on her senses. An undercurrent of conversation buzzed away under the lively music, and the air smelt of floral perfume and champagne. It was overwhelming, and Hermione was silent as she scanned the guests dotted around the entry hall. As she had suspected, she and Neville were definitely on the understated side, but to her relief not everyone had committed to fully disguising themselves, and she even recognised a few people, most notably Cicely Rosellin, her husband and Narcissa Malfoy, who seemed to be deep in conversation about what Hermione assumed was party business. To her relief, they didn’t seem interested in the new arrivals.

“Shall we get a drink?” asked Neville.

“You read my mind,” she muttered, already feeling a little like this night was going to be more trouble than it was worth.

***

Only an hour had passed, but Hermione’s suspicions had already been proven right several times over. Much to her dismay, it seemed that the vast majority of the people who had eschewed magical disguises had done so in order to treat the party as a Ministry networking event, and being easily recognisable as Hermione Granger, most of her night so far had been spent having her ear talked off by half a dozen politicians and Ministry workers, ranging from old and rambling to young and obsequious. She had managed to find Harry and Ginny fairly quickly, but they hadn’t been eager to get dragged into work like she had, so most of the time they just made a swift exit whenever Hermione was cornered by yet another colleague, just in case they got recognised. She couldn’t blame them really, Harry would have to reveal himself when he made his speech anyway, and even though that wouldn’t be until the third night, she supposed he may as well enjoy the anonymity while he could.

Another hour and she was wondering when she could feasibly manage to just leave without seeming rude. She had discovered the buffet and managed to get a whole five minutes of uninterrupted eating in before she was once again trapped in a seemingly endless conversation about absolutely nothing, this time with the hostess herself. Cicely had apparently been dying to meet her, and Hermione didn’t have the heart to mention that they had in fact met once before already. They awkwardly complimented each others gowns and asked after each other’s family, and Cicely asked if she knew her son from Hogwarts. Hermione politely told her that her son had started two years after she graduated, and the woman had laughed daintily and flapped a hand at her as if Hermione had made a joke. Thankfully, she had left fairly soon afterwards to tend to other guests, or so she said, and Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. She needed another drink.

She had learnt her lesson from the last time she’d tried to get a drink from the bar in the main ballroom, since she had been talked at for nearly fifteen minutes by an enormous man in a rather ugly tiger mask who had turned out to be Professor Slughorn, apparently amusing himself at her expense. She had laughed it off when he’d revealed himself, but she had no desire to end up in that situation again, and in any case, the main bar was far too public. She’d managed to avoid dancing so far, and she wanted it to stay that way, so she made her way to the gardens, remembering Cicely mentioning that there was another small bar by the hedge maze. That in itself seemed like asking for trouble in Hermione’s opinion, but hey, it wasn’t _her_ party. She wasn’t the one who would have to clean up after Merlin knew how many drunken idiots getting lost in the maze. She was immensely glad to see that the bar was almost empty though. It seemed that unlike the bars inside, people didn’t sit around here, but just got their drinks and left. Perfect.

She hopped up onto one of the plush, velvet barstools a little awkwardly in her long dress, and ordered a gin and tonic from the house-elf stationed behind the bar. He beamed in his tiny tuxedo and prepared it in about five seconds, and Hermione felt a little pang of guilt, but squashed it quickly. He was obviously free, and even she couldn’t deny that he really did look happy. She sipped at her drink and sighed, basking in the cool twilight air and enjoying the quiet. It didn’t last though, and after a few minutes she heard an unpleasantly familiar voice behind her.

“Looking awfully glamorous tonight, Granger.”

She pursed her lips and swivelled on the stool. Yes, there he was, dressed in immaculate dress robes and an almost laughably small black mask which gave the eerie impression that his pale eyes were glowing. His hair had grown since she’d last seen him, now slicked back so that it just grazed the top of his collar, and she wondered if he realised how much the style made him look like he was fourteen again. She sighed. Well, this night had been unpleasant from start to finish, why not throw Draco Malfoy in there too?

“Was that a compliment, Malfoy? I may die of shock.” She said flatly.

“Merlin, you really just can’t help sucking every drop of fun out everything, can you?” he said sourly, leaning against the bar and turning to the house-elf, “Whiskey. Whatever single malt mother’s dragged out is fine.”

“Not even going to say please?” she asked chidingly, raising an eyebrow at him, and he let out a short, slightly bitter laugh.

“Nothing ever changes, does it?”

She just sniffed haughtily and looked down into her drink, hoping he’d leave, but he didn’t, just leant against the bar nonchalantly, occasionally sipping at his whiskey.

“Not going all out with the disguises then?” she asked, the awkwardness of the silence getting the better of her.

“And do what?” he asked with a snort of humourless laughter, “Preen and peacock around as someone else and talk about sweet nothings? Pretend none of it ever happened?”

“That’s not the point,” she scoffed, scowling, “We’re not supposed to pretend it didn’t happen, we’re supposed to move past it.”

“Oh yeah, you’re _definitely_ past it.” He muttered sarcastically.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she snapped, bristling, but he just shrugged and took another gulp of whiskey. She drained her glass and glared at him. “What is that supposed to mean, Malfoy?”

“Don’t be dense, Granger, you know what I mean.”

“I really don’t-”

“I’m talking about the great big bloody stick up your arse that hasn’t moved since Hogwarts, obviously.”

“Oh fuck you, Malfoy,” she spat, feeling her face heat from the anger and the alcohol.

“ Charming.”

“You’re not winning any popularity contests yourself you know.” She snapped, but felt a tiny twinge of guilt as she saw his glass pause for a split second on the way to his mouth. The moment of hesitation was gone in a flash though, replaced by a raised eyebrow and a humourless smile.

“Oh wonderful.” He said acidly, “And here I thought I was going to be the next Minister for Magic. Thank you so very much for reminding me how much everyone hates me.”

“That’s not what I meant-”

“Wasn’t it?” he retorted, now looking down at her with his nose wrinkled as if he smelt something foul. “You’re not one to miss an opportunity to get up on your high horse, after all.”

“Don’t start, Malfoy,” she said, pinching her nose, suddenly far too tired for all of this.

“I didn’t start this, Granger, I paid you a compliment and you threw it back in my face.”

“Was it a genuine compliment?” she asked, giving him a withering look.

“Well, mostly.” He said, his lip curling in amusement, “Barely twenty percent sarcasm.”

“Ugh. You really are something else, you know that?”

“Why, thank you, Granger.” He drawled with a smirk. “Finally, repaying the compliment, maybe you’re not as devoid of basic manners as I thought.”

“Why are you even out here?” she asked, trying hard not to lose her temper. “Shouldn’t you be off schmoozing for your parents?”

“They’re not my keepers, Granger, I’m a grown man.”

“Maybe you should try looking less like a sulky toddler at his parents’ boring dinner party then.”

“You’ve just got all the answers, haven’t you?” he sneered, and she shrugged, clinking the ice cubes around in her empty glass.

“Like you said, nothing ever changes, right?”

“Right.”

They sat in silence for a moment, and Hermione got the strangest feeling that in that one moment they were actually on the same wavelength for once in their lives. Then the moment passed, and she sighed wearily.

“Great.” She said, standing up and smoothing down her dress. “Well. Nightmare as always, Malfoy.”

“Likewise,” he said,grimacing and raising his glass in a mock toast to their mutual hatred.

As Hermione stalked back towards the house, she let out a huff of frustration. There wasn’t enough alcohol in the world to deal with that man. It was painfully obvious that he wanted to be here even less than she did, but that didn’t give him an excuse to be an arsehole. Not that he’d ever needed an excuse. She supposed his distaste for the pomp and circumstance was why he wasn’t bothering with elaborate disguises, but she couldn’t help but wonder if he didn’t see the allure of simply not being himself for a day. He was almost as recognisable as she was after all, and he was clearly bitter about the way people reacted to him, but maybe he saw it the same way as she did; why should he have to wear a mask just to have a nice evening? It wasn’t her problem anyway. Let him be miserable for all she cared. He’d certainly never cared about her misery. She had to get out of here before she was confronted with the rest of the Malfoy clan. She didn’t think she had it in her to deal with that right now, so she wandered through the enormous halls and ballrooms, weaving through the endless swathes of ballgowns and chittering guests until she spotted Harry and Ginny.

“Hey, you two, I think I’m going to go home.”

“Really, so soon?” asked Ginny, pouting underneath her mask.

“Yeah, it’s been a long night…”

“Seriously, Hermione, you should try dressing up properly,” said Harry, gesturing to his light brown hair and blue eyes, “Do you have any idea how refreshing it is not to be stared at all night?”

“Well, it’s less the staring that bothers me, more the-”

“The work, I know,” said Harry, nodding knowingly, “That’s a nice bonus too, though. No one’s cornered me all night and asked about the Auror Office.”

“Yeah, I know,” Hermione conceded, stifling a yawn, “Maybe tomorrow I’ll do the whole thing.”

“Yes, do!” said Ginny, a tad tipsily, nodding vigorously.

“Alright, I’ll see you two tomorrow.”

“You sure, Hermione? We can-”

“Yes I’m sure, Harry, I’m knackered.”

“Ok, see you tomorrow.”

“Bye.”

She gave them both a hug, told them to make her excuses if anyone asked, and apparated home.

She stripped off the dress a little more forcefully than was necessary and left it where it fell on her bedroom floor. Then she got straight into her pyjamas and burrowed under her duvet until she could almost convince herself that she didn’t have to do the whole thing again tomorrow night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slow start, I know, but I wanted to have them both being grumpy AF for a bit, since it's pretty much their natural state of being :P


	3. Doing The Thing Properly

That night Hermione fell asleep very quickly, but she was plagued by a series of strange and disturbing dreams. One where Harry had removed his mask, only to reveal Gilderoy Lockhart’s smiling face. Another where she was competing in the Olympics against the whole Wizengamot, who were apparently particularly good at hurdles. But then, she had turned around and found herself back at Hogwarts instead of in the enormous Olympic stadium, and then it got _really_ weird.

She stood in one of the courtyards, and it was emptier than she’d ever seen it, but somehow she still knew she wasn’t alone. She felt excited, liked some ephemeral energy was buzzing under her skin, and then someone stepped out from behind a pillar. She recognised him, but the thought didn’t bring her any comfort. Actually she felt a surge of vague fear, accompanied by a penetrating uneasiness that settled uncomfortably in her gut. She watched warily as he approached, feeling disturbingly like prey being stalked. The disquiet was still there, but so was the excitement, and she felt a rebellious smile tug at her lip as he drew ever closer.

The moonlight painted his hair and skin an eerie silver, as if he was nothing but a spectre, but now he stood less than a foot from her, and he felt anything but ghostly. His presence seemed to overwhelm her, and the tumult of fear and exhilaration intensified. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew something was very wrong about this picture, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it, then he began to lean down to her and suddenly she didn’t care.

His fingers ghosted along her jaw,sending a shiver down her spine, and then his lips were on hers, and she felt like she might come apart at the seams. He pushed her against a pillar, thrusting a hand into her hair as he deepened the kiss. Guilt plucked at the edges of her consciousness, but oh, she didn’t care. For once, she didn’t care that anyone could see them, anyone could hear her small whimpers as he pushed himself against her. She knew she shouldn’t be doing this, though the specific reason eluded her… she shouldn’t be enjoying this, she shouldn’t feel like her nerves were alight with pleasure, she shouldn’t be relishing his lips against hers, but it was too late. She was already doing it, she was kissing him and enjoying every second of it…

Hermione opened her eyes. Then she blinked and frowned. What on earth was that?

Yesterday had been exhausting and frustrating, and she might have even expected some weird dreams, but _that_? It must just have been because he was the last person she’d spoken to apart from Harry and Ginny. Yes, that must have been it. . She couldn’t even bring herself to think his name, as if connecting the blurry images and sensation from her dream with the actual person would somehow make it real. She supposed he wasn’t hideous, maybe even good looking (in a pointy, disagreeable sort of way) and if gossip was to be believed he certainly wasn’t unsuccessful on the dating front, but she definitely wasn’t ready to confront to absurd possibility that she might actually be attracted to him on some level. It was fine though, it was just a dream. Just a weird dream. Yes.

She dragged herself out of bed and pulled on her dressing gown over her pyjamas, suddenly very eager to distract herself. Last night really had been awful, and it wasn’t even Malfoy’s fault, not really. Much as she hated to admit it, he had just got on the wrong side of her bad mood. In part it was her own stubbornness and refusal to wear a proper disguise that had ruined her night. She thought back to Malfoy’s words, and chewed her lip anxiously. What if she really did suck the fun out of everything? She had been dreading going because it felt like work, and that’s what it became because that’s what she had made it. If she had just looked a little less like herself she wouldn’t have been such an easy target. Well, she wasn’t falling for that again.

She bustled around the kitchen making tea and her mind wandered. She thought about the feeling of a solid, warm, _real_ body pressing up against her, and the simple joy of allowing herself to just be swept away in sensation. Not with _him_ of course, but it had been a while, no doubt about it. At work she was perceived as such a ball-buster that she doubted anyone would dare come onto her, and outside work, outside her friendship group she was just a golden ideal, a place-holder for whatever perfect woman the person had in mind - at least it certainly felt that way. She hadn’t felt like someone actually liked her for who she was since Ron, and that had ended nearly six years ago now. The kettle finished boiling, and she poured the water over the teabag, stirring absentmindedly as she stared into the middle distance.

Fancy drinks and beautiful dresses, maybe even a bit of dancing, safe in the knowledge that no one could identify her just by her two left feet. A small voice piped up in the back of her mind; half-shameful, half-tempting.

 _But why stop there?_ It said. _You could flirt, you could dance close, you could drag him off to a broom cupboard somewhere, and no one would ever know._

Temptation eclipsed her misgivings, and Hermione finished making her tea and went back to her room to get dressed, her mind made up. She had to make an appearance at work today, but afterwards she was going to find Ginny and maybe Luna too, and they were going to help her create a proper mask and a proper disguise. For once in her life she was going to try and forget about everything and just have fun.

***

As it turned out Luna was too busy to join them, and Ginny was a little hungover, but she was eager to help Hermione all the same. Hermione hadn’t mentioned her dream, or her vague intention to find a man she didn’t know and see where the night took them. She didn’t think that Ginny would judge her, but from past experience Hermione knew that she had a tendency to get a little over-enthusiastic where her love life was concerned. Also, knowing Ginny, she’d make a mental note of whoever she saw Hermione dancing with, then move heaven and earth trying to find out his identity, and that was the last thing she wanted.

They spoke for a long time about disguises, mostly because fully taming Hermione’s hair lay on the border of what was both physically and magically possible, but eventually they agreed to change the colour, rather than the style, trying out a few different charms in front of the mirror until Ginny demanded that Hermione try the dress on. By her logic they couldn’t decide what colour to change her hair to without seeing the dress first, and Hermione offered no resistance. She felt strangely light, as if she had been transported back in time so that she was the teenager she could never have been, playing around with her hair and giggling about boys. She had been so dismissive of the masquerade initially, seeing it as just another party in an endless parade of formal functions, but now she began to see it for what it was; an opportunity.

The dress she was wearing tonight was a deep turquoise colour, off the shoulder with a floaty, a-line skirt made of some kind of tulle that swept around as she moved. Ginny helped her modify her mask from yesterday until it matched her dress and covered most of her face, delicate, miniaturised peacock feathers spreading over her cheeks down to her jaw, leaving only her mouth and the tip of her nose exposed. Hermione had initially thought that the peacock feathers were a bit too much, but Ginny had talked her out of it, saying that if yesterday was anything to go by, ‘too much’ was the bare minimum, and Hermione couldn’t help but agree. When she stepped out of her room in her gown and her new mask, Ginny let out a low whistle.

“Damn, Hermione,”

“Really?” she asked, blushing.

“Yes, really! Merlin, you’ll be fighting them off with a stick…”

“Ginny!” she scoffed, rolling her eyes, “Don’t be silly, everyone there’ll be dressed to the nines, this is practically camouflage.”

“If you say so,” said Ginny, smirking and looking unconvinced. “Come on, we’d better do something with your hair.”

“Voice too.” Said Hermione firmly, “I’m not taking any chances, I refuse to have a repeat of yesterday.”

“Yes sir!” she barked, giving an exaggerated salute that nearly knocked a picture frame off the wall behind her.

Hermione rolled her eyes again and went to get changed. When she returned, she found Ginny kneeling up on the sofa and staring at the picture she’d nearly knocked down, a muggle photo of Hermione and her parents taken a few Christmases ago.

“What are you doing?”

“Just trying to figure out what colour would look good on you,” muttered Ginny.

“Right…” said Hermione, suspecting that Ginny might actually be trying to catch the stationary figures moving when they thought she wasn’t watching. Ron used to do that every now and again too.

“So how about it?” asked Ginny, swivelling and grinning at her. “Fancy being a blonde for a night?”

“What? No!” spluttered Hermione.

“Well there’s no need to look so scandalised!” laughed Ginny, “You said you weren’t taking any chances, and you don’t get much further that Hermione Granger than blonde hair - well, maybe if you acted _really_ stupid too…”

“I-I was just thinking of darkening it a few shades,”

“You sure? What about red hair? In my experience it’s great for getting the guys.” She waggled her eyebrows and Hermione let out a reluctant chuckle.

“That’s not why I’m going, Gin,” she said, semi-truthfully. Ginny just gave her a knowing smile.

“Sure it’s not.”

***

Now it was a few minutes past seven, Ginny had left an hour ago to meet Harry, and once again Hermione stood in her hallway checking she had everything, anxiously inspecting her hair in the mirror. It was the colour of dark chocolate now, her curls softened and pulled into a low, loose bun at the base of her skull. She actually quite liked her new hair, but the change in voice gave her a bit of a shock every time she spoke, a little lower, a little huskier than usual, and just different enough to be jarring. Well, it was jarring to her at least, Ginny had said it was fine. In any case, the whole lot would go back to normal with a quick _finite incantum_ , so there wasn’t anything to worry about.

Once again, she took a deep breath, hoped against hope that today would be different, and apparated away.


	4. Opening Moves

Hermione appeared at the gates to the Rosellin Estate, and already she knew it wasn’t the same as the previous night. As she picked her way along the garden path she could see that the decorations were slightly different today, but it was more than that; _she_ felt different. Today, the shimmering ribbons were coppery, shining in the waning sunlight, and the lanterns were pale green, almost exactly the same colour as the patina on old bronze statues. The whole thing gave the gardens a light, airy feeling, like the last warm days of spring leaning towards summer. Nervousness was still simmering in her gut, but today it was accompanied by excitement rather than dread. Hermione sighed and took a deep breath, savouring the fresh air before she began to climb the steps to the house.

Like yesterday, the house was already packed, opulently dressed guests chattering excitedly as the music swelled, and Hermione couldn’t help but wonder if there was an unofficial start time which was earlier than the time specified on the invitation. She picked up a champagne flute from one of the ever-present trays scattered around the entry hall and gingerly made her way over to the main ballroom. She still wasn’t hugely enthused about dancing, but she had to admit, the sight of all those magnificent, colourful ballgowns whirling around the polished marble floor beneath the enormous floating chandelier was quite a sight. As a child she’d never been obsessed with Disney princesses in the same way as some of the other girls in her class had been, but watching the scene in front of her, she could suddenly see some of the appeal. It really was- for want of a better word- magical.

She was content to just stand there for a while, watching and enjoying the atmosphere, but all too soon her glass was empty, and despite her newfound enthusiasm she was finding it a bit unnerving not to know anyone. She suddenly envied Harry and Ginny, getting to be anonymous together. Hermione crossed the room, carefully skirting the edge of the dancefloor on her way to the nearest table of champagne. Clutching a new glass like a shield in front of her, she took a step further back from the dancefloor, as if she was in danger of somehow being sucked onto it. Why was she so bloody nervous anyway? The whole point of this ridiculous getup was that she _wouldn_ _’t need_ to feel nervous, but it seemed that logic simply didn’t enter into it. She sipped at her drink and mentally scolded herself, still watching the elegant, dancing figures that flitted to and fro in front of her. The music swelled, came to an elaborate crescendo, and stopped. The dancers separated, bowing to each other gracefully. Some of them went their separate ways, some of them left together, and other couples stayed on the dancefloor, waiting for the next song to start.

Then the crowds shifted and for a split second, Hermione found herself looking straight into the eyes of a masked man on the other side of the room. He actually was quite understated compared with most of the guests, wearing simple black dress robes with a black and gold mask that covered the top half of his face and most of his cheeks, but even from all the way over here she could see him cock his head and smile. Hermione blushed despite herself and looked down into her drink, but when she mustered the courage to look up again he was gone. She swore under her breath. Goddamn it, she was determined to do this properly; today she was going to be anyone but herself, let go of her silly self-consciousness and just-

There he was. The music had started up again, but he was making his way determinedly around the edge of the room, around the dancing couples and chatting guests, straight towards her. Hermione couldn’t help it, some vestige of her insecure teenage self took over and she looked from side to side, but there was no one else he could be heading for. Why was she being like this? It was hardly the first time someone had shown interest in her, and in any case, she faced down the whole Wizengamot on a regular basis, why on earth was this flustering her so much? She kept eye contact though, watching him approach her, watching an infectious smile tug at his lip. She felt vaguely as if she should be being more aloof somehow, but to hell with it. She smiled back.

He finally reached her, neatly picking up a champagne flute on the way, and now she had a chance to look at him properly- that much of him she could actually see, that is. He was several inches taller than her, even in her heels, quite slim but not gangly, with chestnut hair, straight and just a little unruly, and eyes the colour of storm clouds. She supposed neither of those features actually belonged to him, but that wasn’t the point, was it? Her dark hair and husky voice didn’t belong to her either.

“Evening,” he said, inclining his head in an impersonation of a bow, his lips quirked up in a playful smile.

“Good evening,” she replied, trying not to sound too stiff.

“How are you enjoying the ball?” he asked. His voice was deep, and though his tone was casual, there was hint of formality in his accent that suggested an upper class upbringing. It was the sort of accent that couldn’t quite be scrubbed of aristocracy, no matter how many years passed or how much the speaker tried to sound more ‘normal’. Hermione thought so anyway. Maybe she was just inventing a backstory out of nerves, after all she had said literally two words to the man.

“I- I just got here actually,” she said, holding his gaze. He really did have nice eyes, sharp and mischievous, and she thought she might like running her hands through that soft, tousled hair. For a split second she felt awkward and horribly guilty for viewing this person in such an objectifying way, but then his grin widened and her misgivings disappeared.

“Ah, that explains it,” he said, still looking at her as if he thought she’d simply vanish if he let her out of his sight.

“Explains what?” she asked, beginning to feel a little disconcerted by the intensity of all this prolonged eye contact.

“Explains why you’re not busy fending off hoards of suitors,” he said smoothly, smiking widely,“I’m terribly lucky to have managed to get here first.”

Before Hermione could stop herself, she let out a snort of nervous laughter. Well, maybe not entirely nervous, she’d always been a little too stubborn and cynical to really be swayed by pick-up lines and purple prose, which possibly was one reason for her abysmal love-life. Mortified, she opened her mouth to try and apologise for her incredibly rude response, but he spoke before she had the chance, still grinning.

“Or perhaps you’ve already laughed all the other suitors out of the room?” That startled a genuine laugh out of her, and she smiled.

“You caught me,” she said, holding her hands up in mock surrender, “I’m sure there’s a small crowd of crying men that I’ve already spurned just outside the door.”

“Ah yes, of course, I must have passed them on my way in.” He said, not missing a beat and leaning a little closer to her, “Awfully undignified display, don’t you think?”

“Oh yes, awfully undignified.” She repeated, mirroring him and unconsciously leaning another inch or so closer, so that she could feel his leg stirring her skirt.

“So, am I doomed to join them?” he asked, lowering his voice conspiratorially, and Hermione couldn’t help but grin.

“Well, I’ve apparently already laughed at you, and that doesn’t appear to have deterred you in the slightest,”

“I can be quite determined when I set my mind to something,” he murmured, and there was a hint of heat in his eyes now.

 _Yes_ , thought Hermione, _I_ _’m sure you are…_

She hadn’t expected it to be this easy. She had never been one to flirt so readily, or indeed to enjoy such an aggressive approach, but here she was thirty seconds after meeting this man, with not the foggiest idea of his identity, and she already felt the giddy thrum of excitement in her chest. She supposed that the usual small-talk about work and hobbies would defeat the object of the masquerade anyway. As her mind wandered inexorably back to her dream, she took in his sharp jaw, his lips that curled into an amused grin and his comfortably confident posture. She could even imagine he was cocking an eyebrow under his mask, and she found it all too easy to imagine this new, masked stranger pushing her against a wall and claiming her lips with reckless, overwhelming abandon.

Hermione blinked and mentally shook herself. _One step at a time!_

“Care to dance?” he asked suddenly, as if reading her mind.

“Oh, I- I really don’t know-” she stammered. Conversation she could deal with, especially since this person was obviously intelligent and not without a sense of humour, but she felt a sickening, irrational fear that all of her allure would fall away once she stepped onto the dancefloor. On the few occasions she’d gone out with Ginny to muggle clubs she hadn’t been nearly as reluctant, but there the dancing had been close, clumsy and fuelled by too many brightly coloured shots of unspecified composition. This however, was _ballroom_ dancing, it was supposed to be graceful and dignified, and Hermione felt completely out of her depth. Apparently she had been silent for too long though, because the man suddenly looked away and rubbed the back of his neck in an unmistakable display of awkwardness.

“Oh,” he said flatly, “I’m sorry, I assumed- are you with here with someone?”

“No!” she scoffed, sounding a little more bitter than she had intended, though thankfully he seemed unperturbed. She gathered herself and met his eyes again. “No, I’m not- I’m not here with anyone,”

“Now that _is_ good news,” he purred, switching his tone back to flirty unnervingly quickly.

“I’m just- not a very good dancer,” she managed lamely. He regarded her curiously for a moment, then sighed and drained his glass, and for a moment Hermione thought she might actually have scared him off, but then he chuckled.

“Well, first of all, since I’ll be the one leading I don’t think that matters a great deal, even if it were true-”

“But-”

“And I hereby preemptively forgive you for stepping on my toes.”

“That’s not-”

“And secondly, well… looking like that, I’m fairly sure you could dance like a lame troll and no one would care.”

Hermione opened her mouth to object, but stopped herself and just sighed. She was trying to be someone else after all. Plus, she’d be lying if she said she hadn’t rather enjoyed the way his eyes had dragged up and down her body when he’d said ‘looking like that’.

“Oh fine,”

“Well, try not to sound too enthusiastic about it.” He said dryly, and now she could practically _hear_ his eyebrow arching, “I won’t actually run off crying if you refuse me, you know.”

“No- that’s not-” she let out a frustrated huff of breath. It seemed that even her alter-ego was uptight.

Hermione felt strangely as though she were on the edge of some sort of precipice. Sure, it had been her intention to find someone she didn’t know and spend the evening with them, but now she was actually standing here it was as if time had slowed to a crawl to give her brain more time to panic. Could she really do this? _Should_ she? She certainly hadn’t done anything like this before, she didn’t know if there was some sort of implicit etiquette or -come to think of it, she didn’t even know he wanted anything more than a dance. Hermione’s heart thudded in her chest and for a moment she felt a surge of terror that she would just be putting herself out there only to be rejected.

Still, she definitely had one thing in common with this man; she too, could be quite determined when she put her mind to something. He stood before her, regarding her with a lopsided grin that was almost, but not quite cocky, and then something miraculous happened. Hermione forced herself to banish her worries, even if it was only temporarily, and thought; _screw it_.

“I don’t want to refuse you,” She said firmly.

He beamed, and something about the expression was endearingly different to his sleek, confident grin from before.

“Shall we then?”

She smiled back and took his hand, setting her glass down on the windowsill beside them as he did the same. He led her towards the dancefloor, stopping just shy of it to look down at her, holding her gaze as he gently reached out to place his other hand on her waist, and suddenly Hermione was devastatingly aware of the fact that now he had both of his hands on her, and any misgivings she may have had simply evaporated. His hand was warm, holding her gently but firmly, his long fingers spanning her ribcage and making her feel small and delicate somehow. Somewhere in the back of her mind she felt silly for the thought, but then he smiled down at her and led her smoothly into the dance, and she could do nothing but let herself be swept away with him.

To her astonishment, it was far easier than she had feared. Her steps flowed with his, and she allowed herself to just follow his lead as she savoured the feeling of his hand on the curve of her waist, his other hand folded around hers and the brief but tantalising moments when their bodies pressed together as they moved. She glanced up, unable to suppress a surprised, delighted grin, and found him smiling back.

“Not so terrible?” he asked as he spun her around, making her skirt flare out.

“Not at all,” she said breathlessly, unconsciously resting her other hand on his shoulder blade as they began to move again. She couldn’t help but notice that he was holding her a little closer than before, his legs brushing against hers as they glided over the dancefloor. Feeling daring, she met his eyes again. “The opposite, actually,”

“That’s a relief,” he murmured, barely audible over the revelry and the music, “I’d hate to think that the pleasure was one sided.”

Hermione’s brain short circuited for a second and she almost stumbled. If she had been in any doubt before about this man’s interest in her, she wasn’t anymore. Even with the mask obscuring most of his face, one look into his eyes was enough to know that his choice of words were anything but accidental.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself too,” she managed. She half-wished she could have come up with something wittier, but he chuckled, leaning down a touch as the music slowed so he could lower his voice.

“More than I have in a long time, believe me,”

Hermione looked up at him in surprise. His voice was still low and velvety, but his tone was earnest. She smiled and pulled herself closer, standing on tiptoes to speak into his ear as the song faded away in the background.

“Me too,” she murmured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In real life I cannot flirt to save my life, so here's hoping their exchanges here aren't too cheesy/cringy. I also cannot dance, so my research for this more or less consisted of me watching 'Shall we Dance' on youtube over and over again.  
> Anyhoo, hope it's enjoyable :)


	5. One Step at a Time

The music melted away, but Hermione barely noticed until the couples around them began to disperse. She found herself strangely reluctant to move away from her new dance partner, but he stepped back gallantly and gave a short bow. Suddenly, she felt awkward and unsure of herself. What now? The other couples had all left the dancefloor together, but she wasn’t even sure what she wanted to do now, let alone what he might want.

“Um-”

“Would you-”

“Sorry,”

“It’s fine,” he said with a small smile, “Would you like to get a drink? At the bar I mean,”

“Yes,” she said, too quickly, and she felt her face flush. “I don’t really like champagne that much,”

“Me neither,” he replied, gesturing for them to move towards the bar. “It’s all very well for a few glasses, but I hate drinking it all night.”

“A man after my own heart,” she said without thinking, and he chuckled, placing his hand on the small of her back.

“We can but hope.” He murmured.

Any other time Hermione would have rolled her eyes and scoffed, but tonight her stomach flipped over in giddy anticipation and she shot him a sidelong glance.

“Very smooth,” she said dryly, giving him what she hoped was a lightly teasing grin.

“I thought so,”

They walked in silence for a while, weaving through the crowds of guests. It seemed to have got even more busy since Hermione had first got here, and despite the house-elves’ near instantaneous service, the bar was packed.

“I don’t know where you got the idea that you’re a terrible dancer,” he said, leaning casually against the bar as they waited their turn.

“Many years of experience,” she scoffed. “Although it certainly is easier when I’m anonymous.”

“Lots of things are,” he said softly, hinting for the second time tonight that this masquerade might be as much of an escape for him as it was for her.

“It’s quite… liberating, isn’t it?” she said after a small pause.

“You have no idea,”

Hermione opened her mouth to tell him she understood, but a house-elf popped up from behind the bar before she had a chance to speak. It was probably for the best, she thought as he ordered himself a Manhattan, she probably _didn_ _’t_ understand, how could she when she didn't even know his name?

“What would you like?” he asked, pulling her out of her thoughts. She nearly ordered a gin and tonic out of sheer force of habit, but managed to stop herself. Today she wasn’t her normal self, today she was a glamorous stranger in an incredible dress who had no qualms whatsoever about dancing scandalously close to a complete and utter stranger. Now what would she never ever drink at a work function no matter how much she fancied it?

“I’ll have- I’ll have a dirty martini please,” she said before she could talk herself out of it. The house-elf smiled widely, nodded and scurried off. She turned back to find him regarding her with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. “What?” she asked.

“Nothing, it’s just-”

“What?”

“I can’t put my finger on why, but somehow I expected you to order something more… delicate.”

Hermione blinked and shook her head incredulously.

“ _Delicate?_ It’s a martini, not moonshine!” she laughed as their drinks materialised on the bar in front of them, and she noted with satisfaction that hers was garnished with three whole olives.

“It’s a _dirty_ martini,” he said with a toothy grin, saying the word with such relish that Hermione felt her face heat.

“Oh for- it’s just a name.” She said, picking up her drink and stepping away from the bar. “Anyway, how can you expect anything of me? You don’t know me.”

“That’s true,” he conceded, once again resting his free hand on the small of her back as they wandered vaguely towards the main entrance to the ballroom where the crowds were looser. “But that’s half the fun, isn’t it?”

“I suppose it is,” she said with a small smile.

They approached a miraculously free table by one of the enormous windows and set down their drinks, each leaning against the wall on either side of the table.

“It is half the fun,” he said after a brief pause, “But I think I’d still like something to call you,”

“Oh, I- um,”

 _Shit_. She couldn’t believe that after all the preparation she’d done for tonight it hadn’t occurred to her to think up a false name for herself. She cast around desperately for a name that wouldn’t give her away; Jean was too obvious, she doubted anyone here would know her mother’s name, Gill, but what if something actually happened between them? What if they were kissing or something and he said _her mother_ _’s name?_ No, that would definitely be too weird. But… the last time she’d spoken to her mother they’d talked about re-reading Pride and Prejudice for the billionth time…

“Um, you can call me Lizzie,” she said quietly. Yes, that would do - although she couldn’t imagine Lizzie Bennett doing anything as reckless and undignified as what she hoped to do tonight. Maybe she should have gone with Lydia.

“Lizzie,” he said softly, as if seeing how the word tasted on his tongue, holding her gaze the whole time. It wasn’t even her name, but Hermione couldn’t help but imagine it falling from his lips in a ragged moan as she-

It was harder than it should have been to mentally drag herself back to reality.

What was _wrong_ with her? Honestly, one raunchy dream and she was ready to tear this random man’s clothes off.

“Um, so what about you?” she asked, taking a sip of her drink to distract herself from the extremely unhelpful fantasies her mind insisted on supplying.

“I-” he began, but was cut off when a large group of guests walked past them talking and laughing loudly. He huffed irritably. “Ugh, I can barely hear myself think.”

Hermione couldn’t help but agree. Since she’d arrived the guests had poured in, and while it wasn’t quite as busy as it was up by the bar, the massive ballroom was crowded now, and noise seemed to fill every inch of space, the overwhelming drone of a hundred different conversations seeming to press on her ears. It would certainly be hard to hold a conversation, but right now Hermione was more concerned about discovery. She had disguised her hair and voice, but at least a few of her friends knew what her dress looked like, and in any case, her face was the same; if anyone she knew well happened to pass them she was sure they would at the very least do a double take. Maybe she was just worrying too much, but she still thought that it couldn’t hurt to go somewhere a bit less busy.

“We could try the gardens? It was a bit quieter there yesterday.” She offered, mildly amused at the grumpy expression on his face - well, the expression on what she could see of his face.

“Good idea,” he said, picking up his drink and taking a large swig, “If you think it’s a madhouse now, wait until everyone’s a few drinks in.”

Hermione opened her mouth to agree with him, but shut it quickly as she remembered that tonight she wasn’t supposed to be her usual, grumpy self. So she just smiled and picked up her drink, allowing herself to be gently steered through the throngs of guests towards the gardens.

“Not a fan of the crowds then?” she asked as they finally stepped outside. The sun was just a smudge of light on the horizon now, and the lanterns were lit, glittering against the darkening sky.

“I- no.” He said as they sat down next to each other on one of the elegant benches arranged around a huge fountain. “It’s- well, suffice to say the crowds annoy me. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be quite so…”

“Grouchy?”

“That’s not-” he began, but then he sighed and gave her a slightly rueful grin, “That’s as good a word as any.”

“Don’t worry,” she chuckled, shrugging one shoulder, “You weren’t any more grouchy than I was about dancing.”

“I suppose,”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, sipping their drinks and listening to the muted revelry of the party inside. Hermione felt strangely as though they had lost their momentum somehow, and she wondered if he felt self-conscious, like his (metaphorical) mask had slipped a little too far. Maybe he wasn’t the one. The flirting had come surprisingly easily at first, but now she wondered if it was simply going to be too awkward to keep up this charade at their current pace. Maybe the only way to actually do this anonymously was to just drag him somewhere private and go from zero to a hundred. She couldn’t deny that she liked the idea of dragging him somewhere private at some point in the near future, but the truth was she didn’t think she had it in her, even as Lizzie. She pulled one of the olives off the ornate silver toothpick with her teeth and stirred her drink absentmindedly with the remaining two. The olive was mostly gin at this point, but it was still delicious. Maybe this whole thing was a lost cause. Should she just give it up and go find her friends?

“So, you never did tell me your name,” she said, deciding that she had gone too far now to just chicken out. He chuckled and turned towards her so that his knee was barely an inch from hers. The heat was back in his eyes, and she felt her excitement reignite.

“I’m not sure you did either, _Lizzie_ ,” he said with a wry smile that sent a little shiver down her spine, “You can call me Oscar”

“Oscar,” she repeated, tilting her head as she tried to imagine the face that went with the name. She decided not to mention that her grandfather had had a dog called Oscar when she was small. A shaggy, yappy little thing. “Well, nice to meet you, Oscar.”

“Likewise,” he murmured.

Then he reached out and brought her hand to his lips. It was the barest brush against her knuckles, but somehow that was enough to make her toes curl, and she incredibly glad that her dress covered her feet and her mask covered her reddening cheeks. Suddenly, she desperately wanted to know who he was, despite all of her assurances to herself that tonight would be anonymous and without consequences. She squashed the whim down quickly. Thoughts like that couldn’t end well, and if she actually did manage to figure out who he was… well, she couldn’t unring that bell. 

“Tell me something about yourself,” she blurted, before she could stop herself. Somewhere in the back of her mind she hoped that a snippet of truth about him would assuage her curiosity.

He was silent for a beat, his posture tensing almost imperceptibly.

“Wouldn’t that defeat the object of the masque?” he said with forced nonchalance, looking determinedly into the rippling water of the fountain.

“It doesn’t have to be personal or revealing,” she said quietly, her face burning.

“Like what then?”

“I don’t know…something silly, like - here look, I’ll go first,”

“Well, colour me intrigued.”

“Shush. Ok, when I was little, I wanted to be a vet- like a healer for animals, you know? I used to practice on my stuffed animals.”

“That’s- that is somehow both incredibly embarrassing and excruciatingly adorable,” he said. She started to scowl, but when she met his eyes she saw he was smiling warmly, as if the adorable was just about beating the embarrassing. Hermione smiled back and hoped that she hadn’t given away too much by admitting she’d wanted a muggle job as a child.

A small group of women wandered out of the house, lingering at the fountain in front of them and giggling loudly about something or other. Hermione sipped at her drink and was mildly shocked to see it was already almost gone, and even as she sat here she realised she was quite tipsy. Damn, she knew there was a good reason she didn’t drink martinis often. One of the guests in front of them shrieked with laughter, and Hermione giggled too, suddenly amused by the absurdity of the situation. She furrowed her brow and tried to get her brain back in gear so she didn’t accidentally give herself away and ruin the whole evening.

“So what about you?” she asked, “What did you want to be when you grew up?”

“A famous quidditch player, obviously.” He smirked and drained his glass.

“I take it you didn’t manage it?”

“I- well, let’s just say that life got in the way.” He said, looking down into his glass, and she thought she detected a tiny edge of bitterness in his voice.

“It happens,” she said softly, and before she could talk herself out of it, she shuffled a few inches closer to him and reached out to place her hand on his knee. He jumped a little at the sudden contact, and turned to her with a surprised expression on his face, as if he had almost forgotten where he was.

“I suppose it does,” he murmured, giving her a tight, slightly sad smile. “It doesn’t matter really, I haven’t actually wanted to be a professional quidditch player since I was about eight.”

Now she was fiercely curious, but she forced herself to push down the urge to theorise. Anyway, there probably wasn’t a person here who didn’t have bittersweet memories from before the war, herself included, but that was the past. Tonight she was cloaked in the guise of a mysterious stranger, and she wanted to be bold, so instead of obsessing about his identity, she set her drink down on the spindly table by their bench and shuffled another inch closer so that their thighs were pressed together. He regarded her curiously for a moment, but then his sad smile morphed into a sly, self-assured grin, and he leant down to put his empty glass on the floor underneath the bench. Hermione’s brain was a bit foggy from the cocktail on top of the champagne, but she felt the hum of excitement intensify. She could feel the warmth of his leg through her skirts, and when he reached up to trail one finger down the outside of her arm, she felt herself shiver even though the evening air was warm. She returned his grin, feeling mischievous and beautiful and _free_.

“You’re trouble, you know that?” he husked as the guests in front of them wandered back inside.

“You think so?” she asked, internally charmed at the thought. People rarely used ‘trouble’ as a positive adjective about her.

“Absolutely.”

Then, as if they had been falling towards each other since she’d arrived here, she leant that last few inches closer as he did the same, and when their lips met it was like stepping out into the summer sun after being inside all day. Hermione sighed and melted into him.

She could be trouble. Just this once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bonding, a little closeness, a little Pride and Prejudice ;)


	6. Toil and Trouble

Hermione couldn’t believe she was kissing a complete stranger, but more than that, she couldn’t believe how enthusiastically her body was reacting to him. Every gentle caress of his lips against hers was like electricity running over her skin, and she felt her awareness of the outside world fall away as he pulled her closer so that she was almost in his lap. She could taste the whiskey on his lips as the barest scrape of his teeth over her lower lip coaxed a soft whimper from her.

Then it was over almost before it had begun, and he was slowly pulling away from her. Her eyes fluttered open and the bustle of the party faded back into focus. They weren’t breathing each other’s air anymore, but he hadn’t shuffled back to the other end of the bench, and she could feel his warmth, his presence besides her. He smelt like sandalwood.

“Sorry,” he said, his voice low and throaty and not remorseful in the slightest. “I shouldn’t have-I couldn’t help myself.”

“I- well, I rather thought it was a joint effort,” she said quietly, looking away into the fountain.

“I suppose it was,”

God, the look in his eyes was like fire, and she wished he hadn’t pulled away. She hadn’t been kissed like that in far too long. There was something about this ‘Oscar’ that made her feel like she was breaking the rules somehow, and god help her, she _liked_ it. Something about his gentle teasing and impish grins that awoke the part of her that had enjoyed brazenly flouting Umbridge’s stupid rules and questioning teachers when she knew they were wrong. The arrogant part of her that she denied existed to all but her closest friends; a personality flaw she enjoyed a little too much to fix. She had thought that she didn’t have it in her to do this, but with every passing second she was more convinced that she had been wrong.

Maybe he was right. Maybe she _was_ trouble.

“Would you like to go for a walk or something?” he asked, jerking her out of her introspection.

“Oh, um, yes, that would be nice,” she said vaguely, “Probably a good idea actually, that drink’s gone straight to my head.”

“I’m not surprised,” he said, standing up and offering his hand. “I mean, it’s basically just a big glass of gin, right?”

She rolled her eyes and took his hand, but as she rose her head spun and she realised he had a point.

“It has olives too, and vermouth…” she muttered, “Anyway, isn’t a Manhattan just a big glass of whiskey?”

“Well it is a slightly smaller glass, to be fair-” he began as they started to walk in the direction of the hedge maze, but then he stopped abruptly.

“What?”

“ _Shit_ ,” he hissed, and it was then that Hermione saw Cicely and Narcissa, flanked by their husbands and heading their way.

“Shit.”

Before she had a chance to think about it, he grabbed her hand and yanked her to the side so that they were partially obscured by a large topiary in the shape of a hippogriff.

“What the hell-?”

“Sorry,” he muttered, but his wand was already out, and his stance was tense and guarded. He pointed his wand at the tall hedge next to them and murmured an incantation, and with the soft crackling of leaves it rearranged itself into a narrow archway. “Come on,”

He grabbed her hand and pulled her after him, and the archway closed behind her, leaving them in the relative quiet and darkness of the hedge maze. She turned to him, squinting in the low light and saw that he was shifting from foot to foot, looking uncomfortable.

“What was that?”

“Sorry, I just- ugh. Suffice to say I didn’t want to be faced with our illustrious hostess.” he said, holding his hands up in a placating gesture.

“You don’t say.”

“Yes, well… this is awkward, but we- we spoke earlier and I’m certain she’d recognise me in a second.”

“Oh,”

“And I wasn’t- I’m not quite ready to break the illusion I suppose,” he sighed with a rueful grin.

“So you dragged me through a hedgerow?” she asked incredulously, folding her arms.

“I made a door first,” he shrugged, “Anyway you- wait, why did you say ‘shit’ too?”

“Hmm?”

“When you saw them you swore. You didn’t want to see them either?”

 _Shit,_ thought Hermione. She really would make an absolutely terrible spy.

“I- no, I didn’t.” She said carefully, noting that her companion also had neglected to specify which of the two hostesses he didn’t want to be faced with.

“Fair enough, I suppose.” He said after a small pause, and Hermione breathed an internal sigh of relief.

“Although now I think about it I’ve no reason to think any of them would actually recognise me,” _I_ _’d hope not, at least_ , she thought.

“Lucky you,” he muttered under his breath.

“Yes, well I-” she paused abruptly, suddenly shy, then immediately scolded herself for being so silly. She smiled up at him and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m enjoying the illusion too.”

Suddenly the air seemed thicker, saturated with the heavy anticipation of a thousand delicious possibilities. 

“That’s good to hear,” he husked, taking a step towards her. 

The aisle of hedges was maybe a meter across, so he was almost on top of her, and though his scent and warmth were terribly tempting, Hermione could feel her heels sinking into the soil, and she had absolutely no intention of getting half a hedge stuck in her hair. She much preferred when her hair was only a _metaphorical_ bird’s nest.

“Um, much as I’d love to pick up where we left off,” she said quietly, tentatively placing her palm on his chest and stopping him, “I’d rather not come out of this looking like I’ve literally been dragged through a hedge backwards.”

“Message received,” he chuckled, pulling his wand out of his robes again. He shot her a quick smile before murmuring the incantation again.

Nothing happened. He repeated the incantation, this time moving his wand with a bit more force. Still nothing.

“Here, let me try,” she said, rooting around in her cavernous bag for her wand.

“No, I’ve got it.” He said, and she thought she could hear the frown in his voice as he continued jabbing his wand at the unresponsive hedge.

“Yes, evidently,” she said dryly as once again his attempts proved unsuccessful.

“I’ve got it,” he repeated, a tad irritably she thought, but then he sighed, “Fine, you try, but - oh…”

“What?”

“Well, when I spoke to- to the hostess earlier, she may have mentioned a charm on the hedges to make sure people didn’t cheat…”

“Oh for- seriously? It’s a party for god’s sake, not the bloody Triwizard Tournament! But then why could we get in here in the first place then?”

“They probably just didn’t bother making them go both ways. Why would someone want to skip to a point this far out of the maze anyway?”

“Oh I don’t know, to avoid someone maybe?”

“Touche.”

Hermione sighed and tried her best to quell the annoyance that threatened to rear its head. She was supposed to be having fun, wasn’t she? Like she had said this was just an elaborate party game. Albeit a party game that had the potential to ruin her dress and shoes, but a game nonetheless. She sighed again and fished her wand out of her bag.

“Come here,” she said, and when he took a step closer she leant her elbow on his shoulder, using her other hand to pull her skirt up slightly to give her better access to her shoes. “ _Impervious_. There, at least I won’t ruin my shoes this way.”

He just chuckled and offered his elbow gallantly. She took it with a small smile and they set off into the maze.

There were magical lights floating every few metres to illuminate their way, but even though they could still hear the party raging on beyond the hedgerows, the atmosphere inside the maze was surprisingly serene. Actually, maybe serene was the wrong word; this place felt alive, yet also… intimate somehow, almost mystical, and after just a few minutes of walking in silence together it felt like they were the only two people in the world. At some point she had let go of his elbow and his hand had moved almost immediately to her lower back, holding her close to him as the tips of his fingers just grazed the back of her hipbone.

After another few minutes they reached a small, circular clearing with several paths leading off deeper into the maze. There were a few more silvery benches arranged around the edge and two small tables, one crowded with more of the ever-present champagne flutes, the other with a large glass bowl full of what looked like large, multicoloured marbles. Hermione took a wary step towards the bowl and saw that etched into each of the marbles was the word ‘exit’.

“Portkeys?” came Oscar’s voice behind her, just a little too close to be proper.

“Probably,” she turned around and found him standing directly behind her, lip curled into an indulgent smile.

It had been her intention to find their way back to the party before thinking about picking up where they left off, but now she was standing here in this frankly, _astonishingly_ private clearing, she suddenly wanted nothing more than to feel his hands on her. As if reading her mind, he slowly reached up to rest his hands on her hips, gently stroking his thumbs up and down. Here, she wasn’t Hermione Granger the stubborn shrew from the Ministry, and she wasn’t Hermione Granger the perfect war hero; here she was just Lizzie, a normal human being enjoying a moment of closeness with a like-minded stranger.

He leaned down for the second time tonight, and for the second time tonight Hermione felt every nerve in her body light up at the exquisite sensation of his lips on hers. God, it had really been _far_ too long since she’d been kissed. His hand stroked torturously slowly up her side and over her back, leaving little trails of pleasure as it went, and Hermione couldn’t help but let out a small, breathy sound of contentment. She wound one hand around the back of his neck, and after just a half-second of hesitation, gently swiped her tongue over his lower lip. He _moaned_ , and the sound sent a jolt of pure lust through her. It seemed to have done something to him too, because where before the movement of his lips had been soft and slow, now it was raw, desperate, his tongue plunging into her mouth as if some invisible barrier between them had suddenly broken. She tried her best to match his intensity, but she found that simply melting and letting herself be swept along with it was just as enjoyable. His hand snaked around her waist until his arm was almost all the way around her, holding her close against him as he kissed her with such knee-weakening enthusiasm that she felt like he was stealing the very air from her lungs.

He broke the kiss, but this time he didn’t pull away, and Hermione let out an embarrassingly loud gasp as he kissed along her jaw. She clung to his shoulders, biting her lip to stop herself from moaning as he scraped his teeth over her neck.

“I have to say,” he whispered, his breath tickling her neck, “You are _really_ not what I expected, Lizzie.”

“What did you expect?” she murmured.

“I-Look, cards on the table, ok?” he said, leaning back with a small, lopsided grin.

“Ok…” she said suspiciously, feeling that she wasn’t going to enjoy this anywhere near as much as his mouth on her neck.

“Ok. When I walked over to you earlier I was fully expecting you to be the sort of tittering moron that usually float around these things.”

“What?!”

“Well, either that or you’d just flat out reject me.”

“Do I _look_ like a tittering moron?” she demanded, putting her hands on her hips and realising with annoyance that even with her magically disguised voice she still sounded shrill.

“You _look_ like fucking divinity in that dress.” He said, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly, “That’s why I was willing to risk you being an idiot in the first place.”

“Charming.”

“I’m not trying to call you an idiot, I’m just saying- you know, from experience-”

“That women are morons?”

“Of course not. _People_ are morons. Indiscriminately.”

Hermione said nothing, but she raised a sardonic eyebrow at him, realising too late that of course he couldn’t see it beneath her mask.

“Fine, don’t say anything, but I have a feeling you don’t completely disagree.” He said, shrugging one shoulder and sounding amused.

“I’m not that cynical.” She lied.

“Look, the point I’m trying to make is that I was _pleasantly_ surprised when you gave as good as you got. I mean, obviously you’re gorgeous, but you’re clearly also sharp as a fucking tack and that is sexy as hell. Plus, you kiss like it’s your last day on earth, which is a _huge_ bonus.”

Hermione honestly didn’t know what to say to that. She wasn’t sure anyone had ever laid out her attributes so… candidly before. And the thing about the kissing was certainly good to know, though she did worry that it might be code for ‘desperate’, which to be fair, wasn’t entirely inaccurate. She _had_ been desperate, desperate to feel his tongue against her skin, his body pressed up against hers- and it seemed that he might just feel the same. Suddenly her beautiful dress felt like nothing but an irritating barrier to just throwing caution to the wind and _taking_ what she wanted.

She said nothing, just leaned forward to grab his jaw, pulling him towards her so she could feel his mouth on hers again. He responded immediately, letting out a low, rough noise that sent another bolt of lust through her as he pulled her closer, his hand tightening on her hip.

Suddenly, the quiet calm was shattered by another couple, who came crashing into the clearing, talking and laughing so loudly that Hermione thought it was a miracle she hadn’t heard them coming. Had she been so entranced by the intimate atmosphere and Oscar’s intoxicating presence? As it was, they sprung apart at the sudden intrusion.

“Oh,” said one of the newcomers, a man in navy blue dress robes and a matching mask, “Terribly sorry to interrupt,” His companion just giggled, as if she knew _exactly_ what they had interrupted.

“We should-”

“We were just leaving,” said Hermione quickly, stepping towards the bowl of portkeys and not meeting Oscar’s eyes.

“I-yes,” he said, nodding stiffly at the newcomers and following her.

She reached out towards the marbles, but his fingers closed over her hand just as she picked one up, and in an instant she felt a sharp tug behind her navel as they were whisked away.

Her only thought upon grabbing the portkey had been to get away from prying eyes, but to her horror, when her feet hit the ground she found herself in the entrance hall, which was so busy it was a marvel they hadn’t been dropped right on top of someone. She looked up and shot him a small, apologetic smile which he returned, but as he looked out at the crowds around them, his smile faded. She followed his gaze and swore under her breath.

They hadn’t been dropped on top of anyone, but they were standing barely two metres from the very people they had been avoiding. Cicely Rosellin and her husband were talking animatedly to Lucius Malfoy, who looked like he wished he was somewhere else.

“I-I should go…” she murmured, chancing a look up at him. He nodded stiffly, his mouth pulled into a tight line. She sighed and turned away, feeling a deep, crushing disappointment that her night was about to be over after such a spectacularly successful start.

“Wait,” his voice was quiet, barely audible over the buzz of conversation.

She turned back, setting her jaw determinedly and meeting his eyes.

“I- Will you be here tomorrow?” he asked, reaching out towards her hip, but apparently thinking better of it and withdrawing his hand.

“Yes,” she breathed, and her stomach squirmed when she saw the corner of his mouth curl upwards.

“I’ve got to go, I’m sure my- I’m sure I’ll be summoned any minute, but-”

“My dress tomorrow is black,” she said in a rush of breath.

“I’ll be much the same, I think,” he said quietly, leaning a touch closer, “Tomorrow then?”

“At the bar in the gardens?”

“I can’t wait,” he husked, glancing quickly over his shoulder before taking her hand and placing a slow, indulgent kiss on her knuckles. God, she wished she could feel those lips on her neck again… But then he leaned back up, shooting her a small, quick smile before turning away.

Hermione smiled and watched with mingled disappointment and excitement as he disappeared into the heaving crowds. Yes, tomorrow was shaping up to be very interesting indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This heat is kicking my ass, you guys. My brain has melted. I hate it.   
> Anyway, the temptation to have them just stay in the maze and bone in this chapter was STRONG, but I felt like it was a bit early for all of that. Also I'm visiting family and I just can't bring myself to write smut with my mum in the next room. It's a serious character flaw for a fanfic writer.   
> Love you all!


	7. Nighttime Musings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit NSFW towards the end...

Even though she had previously been determined to avoid doing so, Hermione couldn’t help but obsess that night over ‘Oscar’s identity. Apart from all the diversions, the whole evening had been clue after clue, and she simply couldn’t stop her mind from trying to put them together. That slight accent, the proficiency at ballroom dancing and the fact that Cicely Rosellin would apparently have recognised him all pointed towards him being posh, she might even have guessed one of the sacred twenty-eight, but she supposed he could just as well be part of the muggle aristocracy, having met Cicely in adulthood. She had a son that went to Hogwarts, maybe Oscar knew him. Actually, she supposed he could have been talking about Narcissa when he’d mentioned not wanting to run into the hostess, but the fact that it had been Cicely’s presence that had ultimately cut their night short made her doubt that. 

Suddenly, she had a thought. What if- what if Oscar was Cicely’s son? The accent, the easy confidence, the desire to avoid the hostesses... He’d known about the charms on the maze, and just before she’d left, had he been worried it was his mother that would summon him to do his duty as the hostess’ son? Hermione had never met him, she didn’t even think she could recall a single fact about the man other than his age, which would be about seven years younger than her, and his name, which she was about ninety percent sure was Gilbert. She had to admit, she didn’t think the name suited him, though even the name Oscar felt off somehow. What if-

No, she had to stop herself thinking like this, it was a truly terrible idea. Tonight had been wonderful, and with any luck tomorrow would be too, and she wasn’t going to ruin it now by over-thinking it. With any luck, tomorrow would be even better. 

She lay on her side in bed staring at her dress for tomorrow, which was hung up on the back of her bedroom door. She had turned the light off ages ago, but had just been lying here since then, unable to settle, tossing and turning as her eyes became accustomed to the low light and her mind whirred away. 

She wondered if he was doing the same. 

* * *

Across the country, though not as far as Hermione might have guessed, ‘Oscar’ had only just got home. 

He sighed heavily and peeled off his mask, relishing the fresh air on his skin after so long being covered. Tonight had started off so well, better than his wildest dreams actually, but as soon as they had left the maze it had gone downhill pretty sharply. The whole reason he’d leaned into this silly disguise business in the first place was to avoid getting sucked into his mother’s frustrating and endlessly tedious attempts to elevate their family’s position in wizarding society. Even as a child he’d hated all the charity balls and soirees, and no matter how much his father had impressed upon him the vital importance of networking and moving in the proper circles in the proper ways, he never quite managed to enjoy it. It felt like work, and bitter work at that, especially now, but he’d been stupid enough to allow his parents to see his disguise before the party had started, effectively dooming himself to an evening of desperately avoiding them. 

He’d had a vague intention of finding some girl and having a bit of fun with no consequences and more importantly, no suspicious, sidelong glances from preachy guests or gossipy reporters sniffing around after him in search of a smear story. He’d wanted to chat and flirt and- well, hopefully a bit more- but he’d wanted to do it without the stigma that came with his name, without the guard that people usually had up long before he’d said a word to them. Had he earned that reaction? Absolutely, several times over in fact, but that didn’t mean that it didn’t get tiresome. Even worse were the women who actually revelled in his history, seeing him as some kind of -ugh- bad boy they could have a fun, dirty fling with, then giggle about with their girlfriends and pretend that the fact they had slept with someone as infamous as him meant that they weren’t boring. He supposed he couldn’t really complain though, he rarely turned them down after all, but he found that these days he was less and less interested in playing that part, even if only for a night. When he’d donned his disguise earlier this evening he’d just wanted to have a halfway normal interaction, and if it went a little further then all the better. But he hadn’t expected to actually connect with someone. He hadn’t expected her. 

Lizzie wasn’t her real name, he knew that much, but that was fine because what little he did know about her, he liked. She was gorgeous, she was an outstanding kisser, and Merlin, she was sharp. He was pretty sure she was either a muggle-born or a half-blood, which might have bothered him in the distant past, but now it only meant she was less likely to be some distant cousin of his, which was a happy thought given that he’d had his tongue in her mouth just a few short hours ago. She’d looked positively ravishing in that dress, tightly cinched in around her tiny waist with the skirts floating around gracefully as she moved, her tanned shoulders exposed. She hadn’t worn a necklace, and he’d found himself deliciously tempted by the uninterrupted expanse of bare skin between the neckline of her dress and the delicate mask that skimmed her cheekbones. He wanted to kiss and nibble along her shoulder, over her collarbone to the hollow of her neck to discover which spots made her gasp and squirm. 

More than that though, he knew she was intelligent, and he got the distinct impression that she was well used to being around people who weren’t as smart as she was, but he’d put money on her never admitting to thinking such conceited thoughts. Once upon a time he might have thought her naive for that, believing firmly that it wasn’t conceit if it was accurate, but those days were long gone. Oh, he was definitely still an arrogant bastard, but he no longer believed that he had somehow earned the right to be, simply by being intelligent or even worse, simply because of his name. Sure, it probably shouldn’t have taken him quite so long to figure out that arrogance was a negative personality trait, but he was trying, damn it. Still, he had managed reasonably well during their conversation to avoid putting his foot in his mouth, and he got the feeling that even if he had been a complete arsehole, she wouldn’t have let him get away with it for one second. Merlin, but tonight had been fun, the first half of the night anyway. She seemed just as happy to playfully bicker with him as she was melting in his arms, letting him coax little breathy noises from her that made him want to tear her clothes off right then and there. He wondered if she would have let him. 

Suddenly, he could see with disturbing clarity in his mind’s eye the image of her standing before him, completely naked except for her mask, giving him a small smile, almost but not quite shy. He hadn’t even spent half a day with her yet, but he knew she wouldn’t be shy. He had seen the look in her eyes when he’d called her trouble, dark and brazen and raw, as if there wasn’t a power in the universe that could stop her taking what she wanted. He wanted her to take it too. It was intoxicating- she was intoxicating, and- shit. Now he was turned on. All he’d wanted when he’d got home was to go to bed, and now the stubborn ache of arousal was threatening to eclipse the fatigue that tugged at his eyelids and weighed down his limbs. 

He knew he should sleep, but his hand was already wandering down, undoing his trousers and freeing his hardening cock. 

He thought of earlier, of the torturous heat of her lips against his, the way she had tensed up and bitten back a moan as he kissed her neck. He imagined what it would be like to watch her step out of her dress, the soft material dropping to the floor and pooling around her feet so that he could just drink her in, in all her naked glory. She wouldn’t let him just sit and ogle her though; they would surge together, her hands tearing at his clothes as his roamed over her body, trying to touch every inch of her at once. Her tits, her arse, over her hips and down her thighs...  


In his mind’s eye he pulled her into his lap, swallowing her gasps and moans as she straddled him, rolling her hips over his cock in exquisite torture. She reached up as if to remove her mask, but instead she freed her hair from its bun with a deft flick of her wrist, and it fell around her shoulders in wild, untamed curls. Somewhere in the back of his mind he realised that he actually had no idea what her hair was like when it wasn’t pulled into an elegant bun, and for a moment he wondered why he had given her those curls, but then he mentally shook himself and returned to the matter at hand. 

He imagined the feel of her body in his arms, the soft murmurs and gasps of her pleasure filling the air around them, imagined her sinking down onto him, taking him deeper and staring into his eyes with breathless, bewitching arousal the whole time. He thought of that sharp, sly look in her eyes right after they had kissed, that subtle little quirk of her lip that made him wonder who was actually in control here, and then-

“Shit…” he hissed, his head falling onto the back of the sofa as he finished over his lap. He shuddered and groaned, and after barely a minute, the pleasure and relief that had flooded his body just a few seconds ago began to morph into shame. 

What a piece of shit he was, sitting here in his empty living room and wanking over this beautiful, clever, fantastic woman like some sort of pervert, obsessed after just a few stolen kisses. He felt disgusting, as if he had stolen the images of her without her consent for his own selfish pleasure. He sighed and cast a quick scourgify on himself, dragging himself up and into the bathroom. Now he was done, the tiredness that had receded for a while came back in full force, and with it his usual air of bitter melancholy. 

He regarded himself in the mirror with a scowl. He still wasn’t even sure if he deserved any of this, being able to prance around at a party pretending to be some fictional man with none of his own issues. A few times a month he wondered if he should just move away somewhere and live under a rock or something just to get a bit of peace and quiet, though somehow he still doubted he’d escape his mother that way. He could move to Mars and she’d still track him down somehow, demanding his presence at some damn event and judging his choice of Martian decor. Suddenly he wished he had met Lizzie on the first night; just two nights together seemed like far too little time, and since she seemed to be as committed to anonymity as he was, he doubted it would progress past the masquerade. He sighed again and raised his wand.

“Finite incantatum.”

He watched tiredly as his chestnut hair and dark grey eyes lightened, as if he was watching himself turn from full colour to black and white. He blinked, sighed, and just like that, it was Draco Malfoy staring back at him again. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know we all knew it was Draco, but I wanted to have a little reveal anyway.   
> I hope you're all happy to suspend disbelief for a bit at how clueless they're both being, at least consciously, because it's going to continue for a while yet :P


	8. The Third Night

From the moment Hermione awoke, she felt excitement racing through her veins, vibrating over her skin like electricity.

She tried but failed to suppress a smile as she sipped her tea and made her breakfast. Last night had been like a fairytale. As she waved her wand to summon a plate and cutlery, she supposed that quite a lot of her life looked like a fairytale from a muggle perspective, only she was her own fairy godmother- well, either that or the witch. Last night though, last night she had felt like the princess through and through; finally the heroine of her own story. 

  
Maybe she was being a bit melodramatic, but when she thought about yesterday, about him, she felt a deep sense of joy and relief that she couldn’t quite explain. It had been so very long since she had felt butterflies in her stomach like this, maybe the last time had even been Ron, back at Hogwarts before her whole life became the war, and- god, she was being ridiculous. A few (admittedly fantastic) kisses and she was acting like a lovestruck teenager. It wasn’t as if they were going to ride off into the sunset together, they both knew it would only last as long as the masquerade. Well, that was the implicit assumption anyway, and as much as it stung to think so, she knew it was the only way to avoid a mess that would feed the tabloids for weeks. 

  
She shook her head distractedly and drank the last of her tea. No more of this silly floating around the house as if she was in a rom-com.

  
That mindset lasted all of half an hour, and before she knew it she was smiling again, barely concentrating on her book. She almost wished she had work today, she could have done with the distraction, but instead she was stuck here, enduring the almost unbearable excitement and anticipation for tonight. The rest of her day passed in much the same way; Hermione trying valiantly to keep her mind on whatever mundane task she was doing, but ultimately failing. It was far too easy to just indulge herself, let her mind wander back to the feel of his hand clasped around her waist, his breath on her neck and the look of sinful delight in his eyes. By the time the evening rolled around she felt like she was already drunk, cooking her dinner on auto-pilot with the slightest of smiles tugging at her lip. 

  
She showered and began the lengthy process of dousing her hair with Sleekeazy’s to relax her curls until her usual frizz was transformed into soft waves. She had planned on putting it up again tonight, but something stopped her. She hesitated for a moment, then murmured a few incantations; one to change the her hair back to the deep mahogany colour it had been yesterday, and another to lengthen it a few inches so that it just brushed the bottom of her ribcage. It was mostly to add another layer to her disguise, but also, well…It was stupid, it was embarrassing, but she wanted to feel him brush her hair over her shoulder, bury his hand in it as they kissed, and he wouldn’t be able to do that if she had it in a complicated up-do. She could keep her mask in place with magic, that was she wouldn’t even need to worry about dislodging it during any… activities.

  
As she sat down at her dressing table and started with her makeup, she was distantly shocked at herself. She had never really been one for casual sex, but the thought of dragging him away tonight and letting things go further felt surprisingly… normal. Something about him felt familiar, yet also strange; thrillingly _different_. If she had known at the beginning that she would feel like this she might have… Actually she wasn’t sure. Would she have given the whole thing up as a bad job? Or gone in fully disguised from day one? Would she even have managed to find him? She didn’t know, and she paused for a moment with the eyeliner pencil halfway to her face. It was a nice idea to think that they would have found each other on the first night too, drawn together by some invisible magnetism, but Hermione was too cynical to believe it. She certainly hadn’t enjoyed the first night of the ball, but what if- what if Oscar had found one of those tittering morons he had mentioned? What if she was just moron number two?

  
Well, it wasn’t the best seduction technique to tell the moron you were trying to seduce that you _thought_ they were a moron, was it? Unless it had worked…

  
She scoffed and rolled her eyes at her reflection in the mirror. Hermione had plenty of insecurities, but none of them were about her intelligence, and in any case, she had gone into that ballroom looking for exactly the same thing as him, so if anything it was a mutual seduction. So what if he had found someone the night before? For all he knew so had she. She just hoped he wouldn’t want to go elsewhere tonight, but something told her she didn’t have anything to worry about. you could disguise a lot of things with a few well placed charms, but that look in his eyes after they’d kissed, that was real, she was sure of it. 

  
She suppressed another errant smile as she finished her makeup and stole a glance at the clock on her bedside table. Six thirty. Just her dress to go, a few finishing touches, disguising her voice, and she’d be ready to go. She hadn’t wanted to appear over-eager and turn up at seven on the dot, but as the day went on her resolve had weakened and excitement had won out. They only had one more night together after all, and she wanted to have as much time as possible. 

  
When she had bought it, tonight’s dress had been Hermione’s least favorite, but as she took a moment of vanity to admire herself in the mirror, she wondered if she had judged it prematurely. In the shop with Ginny and Luna, under the bright lights in the cramped dressing room it had seemed a little over-dramatic, with its exaggerated silhouette and scandalously low back, but now it felt just right. There was something of Audrey Hepburn about it, and with her dark eye makeup and delicate black mask, the overall effect was quite striking. She felt _daring_. 

  
When she was finally ready to go, Hermione managed to wait a whole ten minutes before excitement got the better of her, and she apparated to the Rosellin Estate at 7.04. Just like the previous two nights, it was clear that the party was already in full swing despite the relatively early hour, but today the organisers had obviously decided to really go all out with the decorations. The first two nights, the garden had been draped in elegant, shining ribbons, but today every single leaf was golden, shimmering like a dragon’s hoard in the gentle breeze and muted light of sunset. It took her breath away. 

  
She walked as if in a trance along the main garden path. The crunch of gravel under her heels seemed too loud, the buzz of conversation and revelry coming from the main house muffled by the trees and the quiet evening air. Then, something made her falter, and she stopped halfway to the house, feeling suddenly uneasy. At the end of tonight Harry would give his speech, and most of her friends had planned to unmask and spend the last few hours together. Hermione herself had been intentionally vague about her plans, even before she had met Oscar she had secretly hoped to steal away from the festivities, whether she had company or not, but now she wondered if people would be looking for her. True, most of her friends were as oblivious to her disguise as everyone else, but Ginny and Luna had been with her when she’d bought her dresses, and she hated to think of them accidentally interrupting… something. Hermione loved her friends, but Oscar and Lizzie had precious little time left to enjoy the strange little game of anonymity they had created.

  
She took a deep breath and managed to slow her mind a little, but by the time she actually reached the house her brain was back to running at a thousand miles a minute again. She thought about how many man-hours went into all this spectacular decoration, she thought about how long it would take to bring this place back to normal after the masquerade was finally over, but most of all, she thought about him. She wished she wouldn’t, because for one thing it was only making her nervous, and she was probably going to see him in just a few minutes. For another, it seemed that she was speculating about his identity for most of the time, which was counter-productive to say the least. Letting her mind whir away, she made it halfway into the entrance hall before she remembered that she was supposed to be meeting him in the gardens. 

  
She huffed and swore under her breath, sure that she must look completely mad to any onlookers, then she stood there for a moment, allowing the endless crowds of guests to move around her like water, gathering her thoughts. Then she sighed, smiled and made her way to the gardens. Like before, it was less busy outside, and her heart sank when she saw that the bar was empty. She resisted the urge to wring her hands and retreat, perched on one of the tall barstools and ordered a gin and tonic from the house-elf. Much as she’d enjoyed the martini yesterday, it really had gone straight to her head and she wanted her mind to be clear for tonight. But would he even turn up? What if she had been right earlier, and he had just gone and found some other random girl? 

  
“Hi,” came a voice behind her, and Hermione felt her whole face lift as she smiled. 

  
She carefully swivelled around on the stool and found herself once again looking into his deep grey eyes. He was dressed exactly the same as he had been yesterday, and he was smiling from ear to ear.

  
“Hi,” said Lizzie.

  
“Hi,” said Oscar.

  
Any insecurities Hermione might have felt earlier melted away, and her cheeks almost ached from smiling. She forgot about work, she forgot about Harry’s speech later, she even forgot about all her fruitless speculation about his identity, all that mattered in that moment was the little curl at the corner of his lips, as if they were sharing some delicious secret with each other. Gingerly, she stepped down from the barstool, careful not to ruin their reunion by accidentally tripping over her dress, and she saw that he took half a step backwards, making a show of indulgently looking her up and down. Earlier, when she’d first left the house, she had felt self-conscious, maybe even a little awkward, but now she felt… she couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but something about his grin and the look in his eyes made her feel… powerful.

“You- you look-” 

  
She said nothing, just smiled back at him, eyebrow raised. 

  
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he murmured after a small pause, once again raking his eyes over her body. 

  
“Shall I take that to mean that you like my dress?” she asked quietly, shifting her weight slightly from one foot to the other. 

  
“You’re unbelievable,” he muttered, leaning towards her, “Yes I like your fucking dress,”

  
Then they surged towards one another, and the moment their lips crashed together Hermione wondered why they weren’t doing this _all the time_. His hand was on her waist, gripping her tight and pulling her against him. Her hand flew to his lapel, desperately clutching it with white knuckles as his tongue slid between her parted lips. It was as if a switch had been flipped in her body, as if her skin was vibrating with shimmering energy. It was too much- it wasn’t enough-it was-

  
There was a sharp cough behind her and they sprung apart. Hermione looked over her shoulder, and saw the tiny house-elf standing behind the bar, smiling tightly and looking torn between anxiety and amusement. Oscar cleared his throat awkwardly. 

  
“Sorry, sorry,” he mumbled to the house-elf, then he finally met her eyes, and they smiled. He chuckled and reached up absentmindedly to run his hand through his hair. “Sorry, got a bit carried away,”

  
“Yeah- I um- me too,” she stammered, giggling. God, she didn’t think she had giggled like that since she was a teenager. He took her hand and gently pulled her a few paces back from the bar, cocking his head and leaning a little closer so he could speak without being overheard by wandering guests or officious house-elves.

  
“I like your hair like this,” he murmured, threading a lock between his fingers and letting it fall through, back down over her shoulder. It tickled her spine as it went, and she couldn’t suppress a little shudder of pleasure. 

  
“You do?” she managed. 

  
“It suits you.” He said, cocking his head and regarding her with the hint of a smirk on his lips. “Care for a stroll?”

  
Hermione beamed, and tried unsuccessfully to ignore the butterflies in her stomach. She laced her fingers through his, the brush of his thumb over her knuckles sending a little shiver over her scalp.

  
“Sounds lovely,” she whispered. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got a new laptop since the last chapter, so this one would have been out faster if I hadn't spent so much time wrestling with the damn formatting after transferring everything across. Grr.  
> Anyhoo, hope you enjoy, love all of your faces. xxx


	9. The Golden Hour

Hermione felt like she was walking through a dream world as she and Oscar made their way among the golden trees in the waning sunlight. Her fingers were linked with his, and somehow this tiny expression of affection felt more intimate than any of their sly flirtations or frenzied kisses. That wasn’t to say she wouldn’t like a few more of those kisses, in fact, every brush of the bare skin of their hands send a frisson of pleasure all the way from her scalp to her toes. How was he _doing_ this to her? She knew next to nothing about him and yet she was acting as if she had been dosed with a lust potion. The thought had occurred to her after last night, but ultimately she knew it wasn’t anything so easy to explain. She knew how lust potions worked, and most of them wouldn’t have lasted this long, and even if one did, there was no way she would have been able to sleep so soundly last night under the influence of such a strong potion. No, there was no other explanation for it; she really was this attracted to him.

She chanced a sideways look up at him, and found him doing the same. He looked away quickly and cleared his throat, but didn’t pull his hand away.

“I had a plan, you know,” he murmured, still looking forward.

“A plan? For what?”

“I really did intend to be- well, a gentleman, but Merlin, I saw you in that dress and I just-”

“Got carried away?”

“Well… yes,”

“Well, you know what they say about best laid plans,” she said quietly, smiling.

“What do they say?” he asked, voice low and velvety.

“Oh, you know; best laid plans of mice and-” she stopped talking abruptly. Shit. Why was it so bloody difficult to stop using muggle idioms?

“What have mice got to do with anything?” he asked, sounding greatly amused, although it did seem that he was more amused by her sudden discomfort than the phrase she’d used. Cocky bastard. Under any other circumstances she would have been irritated, but as it was she just rolled her eyes and sighed, a reluctant grin tugging at her lip.

“It-it’s a muggle phrase; ‘the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry’.”

“Ahah,” he purred, “I probably could have just figured that out from context, couldn’t I?”

“Oh, but then you couldn’t watch me squirm, could you?” she said, scowling at him half-heartedly.

“You caught me,” he said, giving her a toothy smile. At some point they had unconsciously stopped walking, standing face to face near where they had entered the maze yesterday.

“Shameless.” she scoffed, trying to sound far calmer than she felt. She couldn’t help but notice how much taller he was when they were standing so close together. Towering over her like he was, his indulgent smile seemed predatory, but far from being afraid, Hermione felt a little thrill of excitement shiver through her. They had been together for all of fifteen minutes and she was ready to throw herself at him, wrap her legs around his waist and-

“I confess, it’s not the first time someone’s called me that,” he murmured, inclining his head slightly towards her so she could feel his breath whisper over her cheeks.

“That does not surprise me.”

“Regardless, I won’t deny that I did rather enjoy watching you _squirm_.”

His voice was low now, a current of undeniable lust threading through his words. As he said the last word, Hermione was sure she could see in his eyes every single situation in which he could _make_ her squirm. Fuck, she wanted him. He was basically a complete stranger and she wanted him so badly that she had to stop herself from moaning when he roughly grabbed her waist, pulling her abruptly to him so that her body was pressed against his.

She looked up at him, lips parted, arousal thrumming through her veins… but then he blinked and seemed to come back to himself, straightening up as his eyes darted back and forth, checking they weren’t being observed. She took a shaky step backwards, suddenly incredibly aware that they were in full view of the whole garden, not hidden by so much as a spindly tree or conveniently placed statue. Silently, they began to walk again, the air between them feeling thick, charged.

“Was that part of the plan?” she asked quietly.

“Yes and no,” he chuckled. His laugh was rich, but there was an almost imperceptible edge of hunger to it, as if he was mentally wrestling himself under control. Well, that made two of them. The thought that he was as overwrought as she was only increased her excitement.

“Not very gentlemanly,” she said lightly, smirking and eliciting a snort of laughter from him.

“Are you complaining?”

“I didn’t say that,”

“No you didn’t,” he murmured, not a shred of amusement left in his voice. She glanced up at him, and beyond the carefully tousled hair and the immaculate dress robes, she saw that his jaw was tight, barely controlled lust smoldering in his eyes. He saw her looking and smiled at her for a moment, then turned back to look forward as they walked, following the neat gravel path with no particular destination in mind. Hermione had no destination in mind anyway, she couldn’t speak for him.

So, he had a plan did he? She wasn’t sure if that made her nervous or excited. For now though, she decided to go along with it. It was actually kind of nice not having to be the one always making the decisions, not always the one who had to figure everything out. Maybe when all this was over she’d try and sit back and let someone else take the lead every now and again, maybe even take some of the infinite holiday she’d accrued at work from years of never taking a day off.

What had _happened_ to her life? Sure, she knew she could never be happy sitting still for too long, but after she and Ron had broken up all those years ago, she had leaned into her work, into the endless tasks and challenges. Then she had drifted further and further into the work as the years dripped by until she barely recognised herself, always irritable, always obsessed with the latest crisis, yet barely present with her friends. How had she not noticed? How had it taken this long for her to realise that she had already slipped down the slippery slope?

“Are you ok?”

“Huh?” she said, jerking out of her reverie and almost tripping over her own feet.

“You were a million miles away,” said Oscar, tightening his grip on her waist slightly to steady her.

“I- yes, yeah, sorry- it’s just- ugh.” She frowned and let out a huff of frustration. She was rambling. She hated it. “I’m sorry, you’re right, I was a million miles away.”

“Shall we sit?”

“Sure.”

They sat. There was barely an inch between them on one of the golden benches, flanked by two spectacularly detailed topiary hippogriffs.

“So,” he said, with an air of forced cheerfulness, “Tell me something about yourself.”

“I-what?”

He chuckled, and when she looked at him she was sure that his smile was genuine. He shifted slightly so he was mostly facing her, one arm slung over the back of the bench so that the very tips of his fingers grazed the exposed skin of her back. She shivered.

“Doesn’t have to be personal,” he said, echoing her words from yesterday, “I’ll even go first if you like,”

“You don’t have to-”

“No, no, you offered up something embarrassing about yourself yesterday, it’s only fair I do the same.”

“Hey, as I recall you said it was adorable-”

“Anyway, it seems like you might need the distraction.”

She let out a little huff of mingled amusement and frustration. Even after her brief moment of rather depressing introspection, the arousal that had been present all night was still buzzing conspicuously on the peripherals of her mind like a mosquito, and she knew that it would keep on buzzing if she didn’t deal with it once and for all.

“Tit-bits about your childhood wasn’t the kind of distraction I had in mind,” she said quietly, giving him a small, slightly shy smile. His mouth dropped open for a second, but he rallied quickly, letting out a short, surprised bark of laughter.

“Merlin’s balls,” he muttered, dragging his palm over his jaw and looking at her incredulously, “You are making it exceedingly difficult to stick to my plan, you know that?”

“Not my problem,” she sighed, shrugging unconcernedly but still grinning, “Not my plan.”

“Stubborn, aren’t you?” he huffed, the corner of his mouth curling upwards.

“So I’ve been told.”

He just growled then, a low rough sound in his throat that might almost have been a chuckle if it wasn’t so painfully obvious how much he wanted her. The sound sent yet another shiver of arousal humming through Hermione’s body, and when he reached out to pull her closer and she felt his long fingers graze her exposed back, she could almost have laughed out of the sheer relief of feeling his skin against hers again. Then he kissed her, and she found herself momentarily breathless, every thought in her mind coming to a screeching stop. Her brain was frozen for several seconds, barely able to process the torrent of physical sensation that suddenly washed over her. One of his hands splayed on her back, the other cupping her jaw as he kissed her with such enthusiasm that she thought she might just spontaneously combust right there on the bench.

His tongue tangled with hers, the tiny scrape of teeth over her lower lip coaxing a soft moan from her as she let her fingers thread through the soft hair at the nape of his neck. Her brain was fuzzy, intoxicated by the way he pulled her ever closer, breathing her air and overwhelming her senses. He tasted of champagne and something citrusy, his breath ghosting over her cheeks and along her jaw as he nipped and kissed his way down to her neck. He buried his hand in her hair, holding her head steady as he raked his teeth over her pulse, humming in contentment the whole time. Her hand on his chest was clenched into a fist now, her fingers threaded through the gaps in the buttons so that her knuckles brushed his skin, which was wonderfully warm. She suddenly couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like to have him pressed up against her, nothing between them but their masks. Reluctantly, she pulled away, her heart pounding.

God, the way he was looking at her- all hunger and barely controlled passion. He was looking at her with such intensity and pinpoint focus that it was actually almost unnerving, as if he wanted to devour her. To her great surprise, she found she actually rather liked it.

“You,” he growled, “Are a very bad influence. Can we at least acknowledge that I was fully intending to be careful and slow and respectful tonight?”

“Duly acknowledged,” she said, giving him a sideways smile. Oscar rolled his eyes.

“’ _Don’t be an arsehole’_ I told myself, ‘ _Don’t just stick your tongue down her throat like you’re fifteen and drowning in hormones_ ’.”

“I’m twenty-seven and drowning in hormones apparently,” she muttered under her breath.

He opened his mouth, then shut it again frowning slightly.

“What?” she asked.

“No, it’s nothing.” He said quickly, shrugging nonchalantly. “Just trying not to be an arsehole, you know how it is.”

“Sure,” she said dryly, raising an eyebrow at him, but all trace that he had ever faltered for a moment was gone, and his lazy confidence was back. He leaned back on the bench casually, folding his arms as if they hadn’t been snogging like it was their last day on earth ten seconds ago.

“Anyway, as I recall you were telling me something about yourself, yes?”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously what?” he asked innocently, his eyes wide even as he grinned smugly.

She huffed in frustration and narrowed her eyes at him, but her heart wasn’t in it.

“You said you were going to go first,” she murmured, deciding to play his game but still trying her best to match his low, silky tone.

“I did say that, but then you said it wasn’t the sort of distraction you wanted,”

“I-”

“So tell me something about yourself,” he purred, his hand trailing down from between her shoulder blades to rest at the small of her back, his thumb tracing patterns into her spine.

Then, something snapped inside Hermione. This whole thing had been an exercise in overcoming her silly insecurities in a (practically) consequence free environment, and now she felt no embarrassment, no awkwardness, only burning, aching _want_.

She smiled to herself and turned to meet his eyes.

“Well, I can’t think of a childhood story off the top of my head,” she said quietly, “But I will tell you that at this very moment I think I might lose my mind if you don’t take me somewhere private.”

His mouth fell open again and he said nothing, and for a moment Hermione thought she could feel embarrassment creeping back, but then he blinked and shook his head in disbelief, smiling widely.

“You are fast becoming my favourite person at this party.” He murmured, curling a lock of her hair around one finger. “Well, apart from myself, of course.

“Of course.”

He stood up, grinning and offering his hand gallantly. She took it and rose to meet him. He leaned closer again, and for a moment she was sure he was going to kiss her again, but he just threaded his fingers through hers again and whispered in her ear, sending another frisson down her spine.

“Lizzie, there is nothing in the universe right now that I would like to do more than take you somewhere _private_ ,”

Hermione had to smother a whimper at that. She was so overwrought that she thought she might _actually_ lose her mind any moment now. He chuckled in satisfaction, seeming incredibly pleased with her reaction. He squeezed her hand and tugged her gently back in the direction of the house.

“Follow me, I’ve got an idea.” muttered Oscar, leaning sideways so Hermione could hear him over the rising noise as they approached the house together, “So as you’d imagine, most of the actual living areas are pretty well blocked off, _but_ , I happen to know that there are several rooms that connect the main house with the guest wing that-”

“You’ve thought about this, haven’t you?” she asked, amused.

“I said I had a plan,” he said with a smirk.

“Clearly.”

He smiled mischievously and squeezed her hand.

“Follow my lead, ok?”

She just nodded, grinning like a moron. He grinned back, and in that moment she began to see the truth of the situation, but she shook her head and tried to get back into the moment. All she had to do was keep shoving down that errant thought, that little piercing problem.

All she had to do was ignore the fact that she desperately, _desperately_ didn’t want this to end tonight.

She wanted more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, it's another tease of a chapter, but there'll be movement *wink wink* next chapter, I promise!


	10. Best Laid Plans

Hermione’s heart was in her throat, her skin seeming to tingle with excitement; she wasn’t sure exactly what was going on with her. It seemed like it was so much more than lust, but maybe she just hadn’t felt such intense arousal in so long she just didn’t recognise it anymore. Her hand in his, following him breathlessly towards the house, she felt a lightness she hadn’t felt in years.

They stopped at the threshold of the ballroom, whose doors were flung open to the gardens, allowing the lively music to flood the whole estate. Unsurprisingly, the crowds had multiplied since she had arrived, but she suspected that they would act as camouflage for them if anything, the crush of people obscuring them from anyone specific. They wove through the endless stream of guests, catching snippets of conversation or laughter as they went. The ballroom was a blur of colour, elaborate gowns and brightly coloured dress robes whirling around in her peripheral vision, the occasional waft of perfume flooding her nostrils, and always the warm pressure of his fingers gripping hers, tugging her ever forward.

It was a relief when they finally cleared the ballroom and burst into the cavernous entrance hall, panting and giggling like schoolchildren sneaking off to skip class. Not that she’d ever been this happy about skipping class, on the rare occasion she’d done so it had usually been to help Harry and Ron with one crisis or another, and she’d generally been incredibly reluctant and rather annoyed at them for interrupting her education- when it wasn’t about something serious, that is. That was Hermione though; maybe Lizzie might have giggled… It was still incredibly busy, but the crowds were looser here, and Oscar shot her a quick grin before they set off again. This time, instead of making a beeline straight through the centre of the crowds, they skirted the edge of the room until they reached the enormous gilded staircases that led to the upper level. Hermione started towards them, but he gently pulled her back.

“This way,” he mouthed, and she nodded.

They passed the staircase and quickly ducked to the left where Hermione saw that there was a sort of hollow underneath the stairs. It was set a few feet back from the main room, no doubt to draw less attention to the rather plain door set into the opulent wallpaper. She had seen a few stately muggle houses in her childhood and watched enough period romances with her mother to recognise a servants entrance when she saw it, and despite everything, it rankled her a little. The house elves probably wouldn’t use it of course, they could just use their magic to get around the place, and in any case they were all free, but it still bothered her in a vague, niggling sort of way that the shadows of old inequalities still hung over them even after all this time. She mentally shook herself and tried to remember that not every second of her existence had to be taken up with one crusade or another, but thankfully Oscar didn’t seem to have noticed her moment of distraction. He glanced quickly over his shoulder before smoothly opening the door and stepping onto a short wooden staircase that led into a wide corridor lit by antique gas lamps, which cast the brocaded wallpaper in flickering shadows.

This place was ridiculous. Even the servants area was gilded.

“It wasn’t even locked?” she asked in a whisper as he shut the door behind them. “Aren’t they worried about-”

“Worried about what?” he drawled, laughing humorlessly, “Guests stealing the silverware? The Rosellins have so much money and so little intelligence that they probably wouldn’t notice if the _ballroom_ went missing, as long as it happened after tonight was over.”

His voice held a note of distaste as he finished speaking, and Hermione couldn’t help but think that this put some serious holes in her theory that Oscar might turn out to be the youngest Rosellin- but then, he’d hardly be the first person who didn’t like their family, right?

“Not a fan then?” she asked lightly as they made their way down another small staircase that apparently led further into the bowels of the estate. He let out a short scoff of slightly bitter laughter.

“No, I am not a fan.” He said flatly. “They’re a pack of vultures, the lot of them. Ugh, and Bertie is the worst. For some reason he’s just decided that we should be friends and I- I’m ranting, aren’t I?”

“Um, a little,” she muttered, giving him a small, tight smile as her only theory as to his true identity crumbled before her eyes. Well. She supposed she wasn’t supposed to be speculating about it anyway.

“Sorry.”

“It’s ok.”

“It’s just that- wait- did you hear that?”

“What?”

“Shh,”

The hallway curved smoothly to the left ahead of them, and up until now it had been completely deserted, but even as Hermione smothered a giggle at Oscar’s sudden frozen attentiveness, she heard a bustling somewhere nearby, the rough, wheezing sounds of someone muttering under their breath. They locked eyes for a moment, and then without another word, he grabbed her wrist with one hand and wrenched the nearest door open with the other, dragging her in with him and hurriedly shutting it behind them. They both stood stiffly with their ears pressed against the door. The shuffling footsteps got closer and closer, until she could make out words.

“No one appreciates old Ganner, no… too old, too blind, too _ugly_ to serve upstairs…”

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. Just a house-elf, though she supposed she didn’t really want to get caught in this position by anyone. She moved a few inches away from the door and glanced over her shoulder. The room was almost completely dark, illuminated only by the sliver of golden light that filtered in around the edges of the door, but it appeared to be some kind of storage cupboard, and she could just about make out the shadowy shapes of boxes stacked up at the far end and a few white aprons hung up on the wall beside them.

“Just a house-elf,” muttered Oscar, and Hermione nodded.

“…Ganner would disturb the guests, says missus Cicely, be happier down here where it’s quiet, where no one can bother him, she says…”

“Poor Ganner” she whispered, feeling terribly sorry for the wizened elf.

“…Guests are noisy busybodies, but no one listens to old Ganner, no…”

“He’s got a point,” said Oscar, and Hermione let out a small snort of laughter that seemed deafening in the quiet room. She froze.

The shuffling footsteps stopped and so did the muffled mumbling. They stood stock still, not daring to breathe, but then the old house-elf behind the door sighed heavily and began walking and talking again.

She didn’t dare to move until the footsteps had completely receded, but she finally breathed again when she could not longer hear the elf’s wheezing breath. She turned to say something, but her comment died in her throat when she found that he had somehow moved closer without her noticing. Now his thigh was pressed up against hers, his face angled down towards her so she could see the specks of muted light in his eyes, feel his breath against her cheek. She blinked rapidly and tried to get her brain back into gear. After what felt like an age, she let out a nervous laugh and gave him a small smile before looking away.

“That was… close,” she managed.

“Yeah… close,”

“Yes…”

“So-”

“Yes?”

“We should get going?”

“Oh- well, yes, I suppose-”

“I mean, we can’t just stay here, right?”

“Of course not,”

“For one thing, I’m not sure if this is what you meant by ‘private’…”

“No, I suppose not,”

“So we shouldn’t linger…”

“No,”

“Absolutely not,”

Neither of them moved.

“Or-?”

“Yes?” she said quickly, entirely failing to disguise her eagerness.

“Oh fuck it,” he breathed, and in one fluid movement, he cupped her cheeks in his hands and kissed her as if he was convinced she was the last real thing in the world.

She gasped in delight, then smiled against his lips and flung her arms around his neck.

“Thank god for that,” she murmured, and she felt rather than heard his answering chuckle, rumbling up through his chest and making her shudder against him.

He trailed his fingers down the sides of her neck and down her arms, settling one hand firmly on her waist as the other wound around to sweep her hair aside and stroke down her spine. It felt as if his touch drew tingling pleasure from her skin, making her shiver and moan quietly, holding onto him like she would break into a thousand pieces if she let go. He let out a rough groan and turned her slightly so that her back bumped up against the door, and she was vaguely aware of his hand leaving her waist.

“ _Muffliato_ ,” he growled, pulling back a hair’s breadth so he could get the word out, and Hermione just about registered him shoving his wand back into his pocket before his lips crashed to hers again.

He pinned her to the wall with his weight, pressing the length of his body against her and leaving her in no doubt of his arousal. If she’d been thinking straight she might have felt a little relief at such obvious evidence that this was anything but one-sided, but as it was all she could do was whimper and try to angle her hips, chasing the spikes of pleasure that vibrated through her every time his hard length rubbed against her core. The movement seemed to spur him onwards, and he shoved his knee between her legs, making Hermione gasp loudly.

Her dress was quite tight, but it did have a slit that went all the way up to her mid-thigh; not high enough to be scandalous, but apparently high enough to provide him with easy access. Yet another perk she hadn’t considered when she’d bought it. Every time she wriggled her hips it rode up a little more, and in the back of her mind she knew that she must look an utter wreck right now, dress twisted and hiked up so that it was almost wide open at her hips, his thigh now brushing tantalisingly against her underwear. The noises coming out of her mouth were desperate now, more brazenly loud with each passing moment, but she didn’t care. He pulled away from the kiss, leaning around so he could take her earlobe between his teeth, his breath tickling her neck as he spoke.

“I haven’t been able to think about anything else for the last twenty-four hours, you know,” he murmured, pausing briefly to trace the shell of her ear with his tongue.

“Me neither,” she said breathlessly, her words turning into a high gasp as he bit down sharply on her neck, pain and pleasure mingling together. Good thing her hair was down tonight, the last thing she needed was a giant great lovebite on display to show everyone what she’d been up to. That wasn’t to say she wanted him to stop, of course.

Tentatively, she rolled her hips, letting her fingernails scratch against his chest as she clenched her fist around his shirt. He exhaled heavily and ground against her with renewed enthusiasm.

“Fucking hell, you are- you’re like a dream,” He growled against her neck, his voice ragged as his teeth scraped over her skin, “I want to taste you- I just want-”

She cut him off by thrusting her hand into his hair and forcefully dragging his head off her neck so that she could kiss him again. For several minutes the only sounds in the darkened room were their soft moans as they writhed against each other, and the quiet, wet noises of their kisses as they became increasingly clumsy and messy in their desperation to get closer to one another.

Hermione had never done anything like this, even back at Hogwarts, where there were tapestries and secret rooms and abandoned classrooms galore, all of which were perfect locations for secret trysts, and if the rumour mill was to be believed, rarely out of use for such purposes. Even so, it had never seemed like her sort of thing somehow; yet here she was, allowing herself to be unravelled inch by glorious inch by a complete stranger in an empty storage room at a crowded party, and fuck if she wasn’t loving every second of it.

She sunk her teeth into his lower lip and was rewarded with a strangled moan as his hands tightened spasmodically on her hips, fingers biting deliciously into her flesh. He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against hers and panting. They stood like that for a few seconds, chests heaving as they both caught their breath. They might not be kissing anymore, but their bodies were still flush against each other, his leg still thrust between her thighs and her dress still uncomfortably bunched around her hips. She could feel his heartbeat hammering under her palm.

Then, after what felt like an age, he sighed and ran his hand down her sides to grasp her hip again, using the other to brace himself against the door. Slowly, carefully, he moved his hand down and around, so that his hand grasped her thigh through her dress, his thumb just brushing the bare skin revealed by her rumpled skirt. Hermione felt like her whole body was holding its breath, every nerve pulled tight, every atom of her being waiting, just waiting. She sucked in a rough, shallow breath when he didn’t move, her hips twitching unconsciously.

“Needless to say, grinding up against you in an empty cupboard was also not part of the plan,” he said, and though she could hear the smile in his voice, she also got the distinct impression that he was once again trying very hard to keep himself under control. His tone was smooth and casual, but he couldn’t disguise the rawness of his voice, the tension she could feel in the long lines of his body pressed against her.

“I’m not complaining,” she managed, her voice thin and overwrought even with the disguising charm. “What were you hoping for? Silk sheets and rose petals?”

“I don’t know _what_ I expected,” he muttered, “You just keep on throwing me off,”

“I- well, sorry, I suppose,” she said, a tad tightly.

“I didn’t mean- that’s not a bad thing. I’m just… not used to it.”

Hermione managed not to say so, but that did not surprise her in the slightest. From his lazy confidence to his obvious disdain for- as he had put it- the usual tittering morons, it was clear to her that he wasn’t challenged often, or at least he didn’t acknowledge it often. She would have put money on him being an only child too. Not that she could really judge him on any of that, she ticked all the same boxes after all.

Neither of them said anything for a few tense seconds, but they didn’t move either. Then, Hermione made up her mind.

At some point her bag had fallen to the floor, and now she gently pushed him back so she could lean down to pick it up. He hung his head, and his disappointment was palpable, but she tried not to think about that as she extricated her wand from the depths of the once-beaded bag. Her eyes were already becoming accustomed to the low light provided by the halo of soft lamplight around the closed door, and she quickly looked around the small room, committing to memory where all the crates were. Then she took a deep breath and smiled, hoping he could see her.

“ _Colloportus_ ,” she murmured, pointing her wand behind her. She heard the satisfying click of the lock turning, then she smiled again and muttered the charm she had researched earlier, just for tonight, for this. “ _Tenebris internum_ ,”

In an instant, the room was pitch black, draped in a deep, impenetrable darkness.

“What the-”

“The dark- it’s just inside this room,” she said quickly, reaching out in the darkness and gently feeling her way up his torso until she could rest her hands on his shoulders. “So we can- I mean- if you want to…” She blushed furiously, unaccustomed to being so forward. She was incredibly grateful that he couldn’t see her burning cheeks. She was a holy terror in the Wizengamot, so why the hell was it so bloody difficult to do something as simple as proposition a man?

“That,” he said softly, “Is a very useful little charm.”

“I thought so,” she managed, unable to disguise the breathless anticipation in her voice.

He reached up to place his hands over hers, then stroked down the length of her arms, over her shoulder blades and down, down until one rested at the small of her back and the other settled at low on her hip, his thumb brushing her thigh again. She beamed, though she knew he couldn’t see, and snaked her hand upwards to trace the line of his jaw with her knuckle. He leaned into her hand and placed a lingering kiss on her palm, and she shivered, her eyelids fluttering closed. She went to cup his cheek, but all she felt was the cool, smooth material of his mask, and despite everything, all the wonder and fun and delicious excitement of tonight, she felt a pang of disappointment. He must have been thinking along the same lines, because he sighed, and she felt his shoulders drop.

“You don’t even know me,” he whispered, his voice heavy with a sort of tired bitterness that she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

She wished she could see his expression, but more than that, she wished she could see his face; his _real_ face. Even so, there was something about his voice in the quiet darkness, something in his eyes when he’d looked at her earlier that made her feel like he somehow could see right through the disguise. He saw her.

“I know enough.” She murmured, and before he could reply, she pulled him down to her again and pressed her lips to his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Fans self*
> 
> Also, I changed the rating because I've already written the next chapter ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)


	11. Strangers in the Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy... This chapter is very NSFW...

Hermione’s world had never seemed so simple.

It was completely dark, and it sharpened her other senses until the sensation of his hands on her was like fire, the feel of his body against hers utterly intoxicating. The only sound was their ragged breathing, the soft rustling of their clothes as they moved and the lewd, wet little noises of their increasingly desperate kisses.

He gripped her hip tightly, almost propping her up with his thigh held firmly between her legs. Her back was starting to ache, pressed up against the hard wooden panelling, but she didn’t care, not when he finally slipped his hand under her skirt to grasp her thigh, the feeling of his warm hand against her bare skin sending another bolt of lust through her. His fingers were tantalising close, yet still excruciatingly far from the edge of her underwear, and she moaned into his mouth and clutched at his robes, but to her disappointment he didn’t move his hand, just left it there, gently stroking patterns into her skin. It was torture. Terrible, wonderful torture.

She nipped at his lip, and he chuckled darkly but still didn’t move his hand.

“Is there something you want?” he purred, his lips brushing hers as he spoke.

“I-um-” she whispered, but no words came to mind. She was halfway to being an incoherent wreck already.

She felt him lean back, and even in the pitch blackness she could swear she could _hear_ him smirk. Finally, his hand moved, but to her great frustration, he pulled it away from her thigh, grasping her waist again over her dress, and it was a few seconds before she realised that he wasn’t just holding onto her, he was slowly but surely pulling her dress upwards, holding it bunched in his fist at her hip.

“You know,” he murmured right into her ear, “Contrary to popular belief, I can be extraordinarily patient,”

Hermione wondered for a moment just how popular that belief might be, if he had inadvertently suggested that he might be a public figure, but she lost her train of thought when he ran his nipped at her earlobe, pausing briefly to plant an indulgent, open mouthed kiss where her jaw met her neck. She shivered. What she wanted to say was that he didn’t seem particularly patient, pulling her dress up the way he was. She wanted to tell him that he was going to rip it if they didn’t shift to a different position… What she _actually_ said, was-

“Touch me,”

The words fell from her lips in a rush of breath before her brain could catch up, and she felt a momentary jolt of embarrassment when she felt him freeze, his lips still against her neck. He pulled back, and even in the darkness she could feel him watching her. In that moment it felt as if her whole world was balanced on a knife’s edge, but then he breathed; a long, slow exhale that turned into a low, almost incredulous chuckle.

“Your wish is my command,” he murmured.

Suddenly his hands were everywhere, pushing her hair back from her face as his lips crashed to hers, roving up and down her back, then reaching around her thighs and pushing her dress back further so he could grab her arse. She moaned and clumsily shoved his robes over his shoulders, scrabbling at his shirt buttons. He let out a ragged groan and skimmed his hands around from her arse, over her hips to the very top of her thighs, humming appreciatively against her lips. She wished she could wrap her legs around his waist, but the way her dress was bunched and twisted around her hips prevented her from doing so, so she just canted her hips instead, undulating against him desperately as their tongues curled together. The movement spurred him onwards, and she could feel his heart hammering under her hand as he slipped a finger inside the waistband of her knickers, stretching the elastic slightly as he ran his finger around until his hand rested on her lower belly. He paused, resting his forehead against hers, and stilling his hands for a moment, his fingers splayed against her heated skin and an unspoken question on his lips.

 _Now’s the time,_ she thought. _If you want to end this madness before it begins, before you do something you can’t take back; now’s the time to speak up._

Time seemed to slow, and Hermione felt giddy and slightly light-headed, as if she was staring down over a precipice into an abyss. A surge of fear washed over her, but it was fleeting, and followed by a humming, tingling sort of euphoria. She wanted this. It was too late. Whatever ‘this’ was - it had already begun, and she was already mad.

She wound her hand around his neck, and tried to put everything she felt but couldn’t say into the kiss, shifting her hips at the same time and nudging his hand down that crucial few inches. In that moment, any ambiguity about their intentions dissolved into the darkness that engulfed them. Her breath caught in her throat as he began to explore downwards, softly tracing the shape of her, one finger dipping down through her folds for the barest fraction of a second before withdrawing, pulling a frustrated whimper from her lips. He chucked again, rough and mischievous, then shoved his hand down again to cup her firmly. She moaned loudly at the same time as he swore under his breath, his fingers twitching against her.

“You’re so wet…” he muttered, sounding almost reverential.

“I’ve been- I’ve wanted this…” she managed, her voice barely more than a desperate whisper as he stilled once again, panting into the crook of her neck.

“Fuck,” he croaked, letting out a shuddering breath that wracked his whole body. His fingers twitched again.

The tension was unbearable, but somehow she couldn’t quite bring herself to shatter the moment, so instead she stood frozen, her fist clenched around the front of his shirt. His hand shifted again, this time pushing the heel of his hand into her clit, and she whimpered quietly, flexing and clenching her fingers restlessly.

“You have no idea…” he mumbled, his voice barely audible over their frantic breathing.

“I-” she began, but her words died in her throat as he finally, _finally_ moved his hand.

He slid his fingers down, gently parting her legs further and twisting his wrist so he could get a better angle, until slowly, achingly slowly, his fingers pushed inside her. She gasped at the sudden sensation, the glorious, impossible intimacy washing over her like the tide. She let her head drop forward onto his shoulder as she snaked her hand up to grasp the back of his neck. His fingers began to move, pumping and curling inside her in rhythm with the insistent thrust of his hips, and the rest of Hermione’s world disappeared into the darkness.

Her rationality began to slip away, her awareness narrowing until her whole world was his intoxicating presence, his fingers stroking softly, slowly but surely drawing flutters of pleasure from her. He dragged his tongue up her neck, tracing the line of her jaw as he curled his fingers inside of her, and she let out a high-pitched gasp. He groaned in response and pulled her tighter, his fingers now moving a little more forcefully as his whole body undulated against her.

He leaned back an inch and slid his other hand up her thigh, hooking a thumb inside her knickers and dragging them down until the elastic was stretched tight by her parted legs. There were still too many clothes, too many obstacles between them though, and for a moment Hermione wondered how terrible it would really be if she just tore everything off both of them, masks and all. She wouldn’t, she _couldn’t_ , but damn it all, right then she wanted nothing more than to feel his naked body pressed up against hers.

“Oh god…” she moaned, imagining herself naked and spread before him.

“I want to taste you so badly,” he husked, sounding almost as wrecked as she felt, “I want to- fuck- I want you screaming my name… I want-”

“ _Everything_ ,” she breathed.

His words had brought her a little way back to her senses, and in a moment of hazy lucidity she moved her hands down from his chest, fumbling with the waistband of his trousers. She managed to get them undone, but he growled and surged forwards, swallowing her moans with a crushing kiss and trapping her hand a little awkwardly between them. She didn’t care though, how could she, when with every passing moment she spiralled closer to shattering in his arms? She writhed helplessly against his fingers as he murmured delicious, sinful fragments of sentences against her lips, each one more filthy than the last, grinding his erection into her hand the whole time. She tried her best to stroke him through his boxers, but the way they were crushed against each other made it difficult to get any real movement, and in any case he seemed far more interested in driving her to distraction with his tongue in her mouth and the relentless motion of his hand between her legs.

“ _Oh_ ,” she breathed, and he let out a broken moan in response.

Her nerves were alight, a halo of fire that swelled and intensified with every movement until suddenly, she was lost.

Her hands scrabbled against him, her fingernails biting into his shoulder as she cried out, her voice raw and ragged, impossibly loud in the quiet room. On the very edge of her awareness she heard him groaning and swearing against her neck as he held her steady, his other hand digging into the back of her thigh as she fell apart in his arms. There was a soft thump as her knickers fell onto her shoe, but she barely noticed. Shuddering and panting, she clenched and unclenched her hands as the waves of pleasure began to recede.

She didn’t know how long it was before he finally removed his fingers, but she let out a small whimper as his hand brushed her clit on the way. He braced himself against the wall behind her but didn’t move away, his heavy breathing cutting through the silent darkness. Hermione tried to slow her heart, tried to pull herself together, but her mind was a hazy, confused mess. She sighed and took a deep breath, finally lowering her leg, which had been awkwardly bent outwards, hiked up and pinned in place by his body while they…

“Fucking hell…” he murmured.

She let out a shaky laugh, and it seemed to bring him to his senses a little. He pulled back slightly and raised his hand to ghost his knuckles along her jaw. Her eyes fluttered closed, and for what felt like the thousandth time tonight she wished she could see him properly. Fuck, she wished she could _know_ him properly.

“That was-” she whispered.

“That- that was so much more than-”

“I know,” She smiled shyly and mirrored him, running her fingers along the line of his jaw.

“You are- you are _incredible_ ,” he breathed, and she felt herself blush.

“Do you-?”

“Do I what?”

“Well, I mean… I know _I’m_ certainly satisfied, but-”

He cut her off with a low, slightly incredulous chuckle.

“Seriously?”

Before she could reply, he grabbed her wrist and tugged her hand down until it rested on his crotch. At some point she had managed to get his trousers open, not that she remembered doing it, and now through his boxers she could feel an unmistakable wet patch.

Well.

This was certainly a day of firsts. She was a long way from a blushing virgin, but to the best of her knowledge she’d never made a man come in his pants without even touching him. If nothing else it was definitely a boon to her ego. She tucked her hair behind her ear absentmindedly, suddenly very aware that even though it was pitch black, she was still standing there with her dress held wide open and her knickers around her ankles.

God, how on earth had she got here from just wanting a night free from ministry networking? Not that she regretted it, but to say it was a departure from her usual pastimes was a monumental understatement.

She tried to shuffle her dress down over her hips without overtly pushing him off her, but he got the message almost immediately, clearing his throat and taking a step backwards. She bent down, incredibly glad that the darkness prevented him from seeing her wriggling in her tight dress, shimmying her soaked knickers back up her legs. She should feel embarrassed, but instead she smiled to herself, charmed to have this new, exciting secret. Somewhere off to her left she heard him mutter a cleaning charm, and she reached into her bag to grab her wand and follow suit.

They stood silently in the impenetrable darkness for longer than was comfortable, the heat fading despite the cramped space as the all consuming lust that had hung int he air just a few minutes ago began to dissipate.

“Now what?” he whispered, as if reading her mind.

“I don’t know.”

More silence.

“Well…” she began, twisting her hair over her shoulder nervously.

“What?”

“I-” She stopped talking and huffed in frustration, her inner self screaming at her; _are you a Gryffindor or what?!_ “Oh fuck it… Um, well, that was- well, obviously that was great, right?”

“Fucking understatement…” he muttered, nudging her with his shoulder. She smiled tightly, but kept fiddling with her hair.

“I mean, I know it’s a masquerade and all, and obviously both of us are disguised for a reason, but- well- oh for fuck’s sake… it’s been far too long since I- look, I’m trying to ask you out, OK?”

The silence that followed was thunderous.

Hermione felt as if the bottom had dropped out of her stomach. What on earth was she _thinking_?

“Forget it,” she mumbled, “I shouldn’t have-”

“It’s fine.” He said tightly.

“I just lost my mind for a minute there, please just forget I said anything.”

“You don’t have to- please don’t apologise,” he sighed. She felt him shuffle next to her, bringing his elbow up to run his hand through his hair- at least, she thought that was what he was doing, it was hard to tell in this darkness.

“It’s not a big deal,” she said, willing her voice steady and shrugging one shoulder in forced nonchalance, “It’s a weird situation, and in any case, I’m a big girl, I can handle it if-”

“It’s not about you.” He interrupted hoarsely, “You’re- you’re like a dream. It’s just…” He trailed off, and Hermione honestly couldn’t think of a response.

When he next spoke after what felt like an age, he sounded as if he was choosing his words very, very carefully.

“I don’t think- I mean, I’m not sure that would be a good idea,” He said very quietly.

Once again, Hermione wasn’t really sure how to respond to that. The first thought that ran through her mind was; _what is that supposed to mean?_ The second was tinged with a little more concern, as her mind cycled through every possible horrible reason it might not be a good idea, the word ‘MARRIED’ flashing in giant warning letters at the forefront.

“I know,” he said, sounding wretched but at least dragging Hermione out of her own head for a moment and pumping the brakes on her rapidly escalating worry. She shook her head and sighed.

“No, it’s fine. It’s complicated. Everything’s complicated.”

“True, but-”

“I get it, I really do, it’s fine.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I just- for a moment there it didn’t seem so complicated.”

“I know,” he whispered.

Neither of them said anything for a while, standing side by side in the pitch darkness.

“Back to the party then?”

“I suppose so.”

“I just- I want you to know that this was-”

“I know,” she whispered. She hesitated for a second before daring to reach up to his face, her fingers ghosting over his jaw and up to brush the edge of his mask. He let out a long, low exhale and pushed away from the wall they were leaning against.

“Ok,”

“Ok,”

“For the record, I- this was so, so much more than I had hoped,” he said quietly.

“Me too,” she said, smiling sadly.

They stood in silence for another few seconds, until finally she picked up her bag, and he retrieved his robes from where she had shoved them to the floor, pulling his wand out of his pocket. He sighed.

“ _Finite Incantatum_ ,”

“No, wait!”

She grabbed his wrist, but it was too late.

The darkness was already dissipating, and she could feel the other enchantments in the room lifting. All the enchantments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally getting to the good shit.  
> Sometimes writing is like pulling teeth, but not right now, this is like crack for me at the moment :p


	12. Into the Light

Even before Hermione had cast the darkness charm, the room had been pretty gloomy, but after the pitch blackness, the dim light of the lamps outside filtering through the gaps in the door seemed blindingly bright. She released his wrist as if she had been burned and hurriedly turned away. She felt her hair spring up as the few inches of length she’d added with magic disappeared. Her throat tingled for a second and she knew her voice was back to normal, though she didn’t dare test it. She tried to control her breathing, willing herself not to panic; she still had the mask after all, though now the charm she’d used to attach it had been lifted it was perched precariously on the bridge of her nose. She reached up to hold it in place at her temples, maybe that would be enough that if she left now, she could run to the ladies’ and reapply her charms without the whole illusion crumbling. Maybe this wasn’t broken yet, maybe-

“Oh shit. I’m sorry, I- I cannot believe I just did that.” 

Hermione froze. That voice…

She turned as if in slow motion, as if she was experiencing a disturbingly realistic dream that was rapidly turning into a nightmare.

The clothes were the same, but the mask which had obscured most of his face before was now plain black and tiny, barely covering his eyes. Just the same as it had been on the first night. In any case, mask or no mask, there was no mistaking that shock of white-blonde hair, those pale eyes glinting in the shadows. Her eyes widened, but she was rooted to the spot, paralysed by shock.  No …

“I don’t- h-how-?” Her voice was a barely audible wisp, and she had to remind herself to breathe after neither of them said anything else for several seconds. The air seemed thin though, insubstantial in comparison with the sheer, overwhelming shock seemed to blanket the room.

“Look,” he said, squaring his shoulders and looking down at the floor as he rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. He looked deeply uncomfortable, his posture stiff and his eyes downcast, but his demeanour was almost forlorn, a far cry from the appalled shock and confusion that Hermione felt. Could he… could he have  known? Was it possible that he could have planned this? Was it all some sort of elaborate trick?

She had felt like she was frozen before, but now her blood felt like ice in her veins, panic elbowing its way past shock and embarrassment to take the lead in her emotional queue. 

“Look,” he repeated, a sort of resigned anguish permeating his usually calm tone. “I- I know that I’m-I don’t know what you-”

All at once it dawned on Hermione. 

He hadn’t recognised her yet. 

She still had her mask, and she had only used enchantments to slightly change the colour of her hair; in the darkened room it must have looked almost the same as it had a few minutes ago. He hadn’t recognised her, and he was worried that ‘Lizzie’ would no longer be interested in him because of his reputation, his past. She could almost have laughed if the situation wasn’t so spectacularly devoid of humour. 

“Malfoy?” She said, her voice seeming thunderously loud in the quiet, cramped room. 

Now she saw the realisation wash over him. His shoulders tensed, his head shot up, and even in the low light she could see his mouth drop open and his eyes widen. Her hands shaking, she pulled the mask away from her face, and he took half a step backwards. 

“What the-” He shook his head distractedly, as if trying to wake himself up, then took a step towards her, his eyes seeming to glow as he stared at her. When he spoke, his voice had a hazy, faraway quality to it. “No, it- it’s not-”

“Oh my god…” she groaned, her eyes flickering shut in horror. 

“ Granger ?!” 

They stared at each other. 

She said nothing. Neither did he. After a few seconds of dismayed and utterly dumbfounded silence, he stumbled backwards and dropped down heavily to sit on one of the crates, swearing under his breath and feverishly running his fingers through his hair. Hermione stayed where she was, pressed up against the opposite wall as if staying as far as possible from him would somehow mean the past 48 hours never happened. 

Fuck…

Fuck! Of all the hundreds of wizards here tonight, why did it have to be  him that approached her? If she had only looked a little closer past the mask, if only she had thought a little harder about- oh god, it all seemed so excruciatingly obvious now… How could she have been so blind? Thinking at the moment was like sifting through broken glass with her bare hands, but she couldn’t stop. His name repeated in her mind like a news headline, over and over again in every possible combination to hammer home  exactly what she’d done. 

Draco fucking Malfoy. She had kissed Draco Malfoy. Draco Malfoy just came in his trousers while he fingered her. She had just orgasmed over Draco Malfoy’s hand. 

“I feel sick…” she mumbled to herself as another wave of panic rolled over her.

“Thanks a lot.” He snapped from across the room. “I can’t say I’m spectacularly pleased about this new development either, you know.”

“Fuck you,” she hissed.

“Not quite,” he sneered, “Looks like we both dodged  that  unforgivable.”

And just like that, her dismay transformed into anger. Lizzie and Oscar had been a beautiful lie, but a lie nonetheless. Now she was herself again, and she rounded on him, rage pulsating through her body. She was Hermione fucking Granger; she had never taken any bullshit from Malfoy before, and she damn well wasn’t going to start now. 

“ Unforgivable ?” she whispered, her voice tight and deadly quiet. “Oh yes, I’m sure sullying yourself with the likes of me would indeed be comparable with  the fucking cruciatus curse-”

“Oh for fuck’s sake. It’s just a phrase, Granger, there’s a muggle version too, isn’t there? Dodged a gun or something?” 

“Dodged a bullet . I know it’s just a phrase, thanks” she said tightly, “It’s still not terribly flattering- not that I should be surprised by that. God knows you’ve never held back your opinions about me before-”

“You’re overthinking this-”

“Don’t fucking tell me what I’m doing!” she exclaimed, still angry, but veering back towards panic. “I reserve the right to be freaked out about this!”

“Fine, but-”

“What the fuck were you thinking, Malfoy?  Finite Incantatum?!”

“That was- I- I wasn’t thinking, ok?”

“Clearly…”

“Oh don’t give me that look as if you’re bloody infallible. I know it pains you to think of it but you’re just as human as the rest of us.”

“Malfoy, are you suggesting that of the two of us,  I am the one with the inflated sense of self-importance?”

“You know what, Granger? You’re starting to believe your own hype, and it’s sad.”

She laughed bitterly and resisted the urge to remind him that there was a time when he had fought tooth and nail to convince the world that she was absolutely  not as human as the rest of them. 

“I knew I shouldn’t have bothered with the bloody disguises…” he muttered.

“What?”

“I hate all this shit at the best of times. Then the one time I actually decide to lean into it I end up here. Just my fucking luck.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

He gave her a withering look, as if she was being dense.

“Oh come on, Granger, you’re not seriously suggesting that you’re surprised that you wouldn’t be my first choice? Merlin fucking knows I wouldn’t be yours.”

Her mouth dropped open as her temper flared, even though she knew he wasn’t strictly wrong. 

“Ugh, you are  such an  arsehole!”  she exclaimed when she couldn’t come up with an appropriately cutting retort. 

“You certainly didn’t seem to think so a few minutes ago,” he sneered, his lip curling humourlessly.

“That- that doesn’t count. That wasn’t  you .”

“And who the fuck are you to decide that?” he snapped, false amusement falling away in an instant as he stood up angrily.

“I-you-”

“Don’t you dare, Granger,” he hissed, “Don’t you fucking dare say you know me. You don’t know shit. We’ve spoken what- four times since the end of the war? Everyone’s always waxing bloody poetic about your spectacular brain, but here you are; ten years later and incapable of grasping the fact that not everyone is the same person they were at school.”

“That’s not fair-”

“I bet it must just break your mind to think that I’m anything other than a shitty caricature of a villain, doesn’t it? I bet the very thought that you might have been wrong about something rocks your whole worldview, because all you want is to keep everyone stuck like they were at Hogwarts, where you were the  best . It wouldn’t do for perfect Hermione fucking Granger to be wrong, would it?” 

“And you’re so much better, are you?” she cried, throwing her hands up in frustration, “’ Perfect Hermione Granger’ ? Why do you think I wanted a night off in the first place? Do you have  any fucking idea  how much pressure I am under?”

“Oh, poor you-” he began, pouting mockingly, but she jabbed him hard in the chest, which shut him up.

“Damn it, Malfoy, you stand there and mock me for thinking negatively about you, when you know full well that my opinions are based on literally  years of abuse at your hands. And yes, I know it’s been ten years since the war; but you know as well as I do that you’ve hardly made an effort to change my mind since then. Don’t stand there and make out like I’m making a snap judgement about you. We might not be enemies anymore, but don’t fucking delude yourself into thinking that it’s  my prejudice that’s stopped us from being fast friends.”

“It’s never going to be enough for you lot, is it?” he snarled, “How many fucking times do I have to apologise before you’ll look at me like a human being?”

“Once would be nice!” she shouted incredulously, and she was gratified to see his scowl falter for a moment. She had him. Not that the knowledge brought her much comfort at this point.

“What are you-” he began. 

“You have  never once  actually apologised to me, Malfoy,” she hissed, “You thanked me for speaking at the trial, you’ve mumbled once or twice to the three of us about how you regret things, but you have never once said sorry to  me- ”

“That can’t be right…”

“-to say nothing of the truly spectacular irony of you telling  me to look at  you without prejudice.” She scoffed bitterly, forcing out a choked laugh, because if she didn’t laugh she knew she would cry.

He said nothing, just scowled and looked down at his shoes. Hermione sighed and blinked back the tears that pricked at her eyelids. This was too much.

“I can’t believe I thought- it doesn’t matter.” She sniffed, turning away and placing her hand on the doorknob. 

“Granger wait-”

“No, I can’t- I can’t do this.”

He grabbed her other wrist and she gave a start but didn’t look around, just stared into the grain of the wooden door.

“Let go of me, Malfoy,” she whispered. His grip wasn’t tight, but somehow she was paralysed by the physical contact, terrified by the first time he’d touched her after the discovery of their true identities. 

“Granger, I- look,” he frowned and released her wrist, sighing heavily, “Look, for what it’s worth, I regret…  everything…  everything before. I really do. I- I’m sorry, Granger- Hermione.”

She stared at him, speechless. Apparently this was one too many revelations for one day, because her brain had ground to a screeching stop and was now refusing to formulate any kind of articulate thought. She watched as he hung his head in what seemed like genuine contrition, and once again the true, inconceivable reality of the situation washed over her. 

Draco Malfoy. She’d kissed Draco Malfoy. Draco Malfoy had said he thought she was gorgeous. She had  slow danced with Draco Malfoy, and loved the way it had felt when he’d held her. 

She inhaled shakily, her hand still on the doorknob.

“For what it’s worth, I believe you.” She whispered. 

Then she wrenched the door open and hurried out into the corridor and towards the main house before he could say anything else. She couldn’t bear to watch his reaction, she was barely managing to stop herself from crying as it was. The party was much the same as when she had left it, though apparently her timing was good, because the tides of guests were clearly beginning to flow towards the main ballroom, where Harry’s speech would be held before everyone would crowd into the gardens for the fireworks. She had hoped that being back amongst the hordes of people would ease her mind, help bring her forget the mess she had found herself in, but even once she had located Luna and Neville her smile felt forced as her mind continued to race.

Draco Malfoy.

Shit. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been my goddam white whale. I've written and re-written it so many times over the last few days, but it's time for me to let it go, lest it take my sanity.


	13. The Morning After the Night Before - Draco

Draco awoke.

He felt uneasy, almost sickly, and he sat frowning drowsily for several seconds without the faintest idea why he should feel so uncomfortable. Once he remembered though, it was impossible to stop remembering.

He remembered the burning elation he’d felt when she’d told him to take her somewhere private; but then he remembered that it was Granger.

He remembered those frenzied, _glorious_ minutes they’d spent in the sanctuary of the darkness she had created; then he remembered that it was _Granger_.

It was a jumble of raw memories of sensation and passion; all wet heat and vague impressions of her hands or her tongue or the feeling of her body against him that blurred together into a symphony of lust-fuelled delirium.

Then he remembered that it was Hermione fucking Granger.

He’d apparated home almost immediately after last night’s revelations, not even bothering to make his excuses to his parents, then he’d made a bee-line for the drinks cabinet and extricated that eye-wateringly strong Irish Whiskey that Theo had foisted upon him the last time he’d been over. It burned his eyes and his throat as he drank, but he had poured himself another all the same, and another.

What magnificent irony it was, that he had donned the magical disguises to try and escape the way people looked at him, only to choose the one woman who knew better than anyone every single thing he had done to _deserve_ those looks. And that wasn’t even the worst part; the worst part was that he had _chosen_ her, he had picked her out of a huge fucking crowd of eligible one-night-stands and decided that she was the one he wanted, then proceeded to commit to that choice for the next night too. He’d love to think that he had just been thinking with his dick, this would all be so much easier if it had just been another transient roll in the hay, but the terrible truth was that he’d known since the he’d got home on the second night that ‘Lizzie’ was different. She had intrigued him.

Merlin, what a mess.

He wished he’d had a chance to mull over the revelation on his own for a bit, but no such luck. In a matter of seconds the illusion had crumbled and they had fallen right back into old habits, namely sniping at each other until one or both of them was ready to storm out of the room. It was how it had always been, and until recently (extremely recently, in fact) he had been convinced that it was how it always would be, but now he wasn’t sure. He let out a bitter snort of laughter. ‘Different’ was right; if only he’d known how different she was- well, if he’d known the truth he’d never have approached her in the first place, and probably doomed himself to yet another boring soiree like every other one his mother dragged him to. What was it she’d said on that first night- that he’d looked like a bored child at a dinner party? Well, much as he hated to admit it she might have had him there. These days he felt like if you took away all the tedious social events and family obligations, there wasn’t all that much left in his life. He supposed he should be grateful he had a life at all- him and his parents both- but he couldn’t help but wonder if he was wasting it somehow.

He huffed in frustration and dragged himself out of bed. Typical bloody Granger, making him feel inadequate even when she wasn’t here. She had a way of making him feel like a despicable villain, while at the same time somehow weak and pathetic whenever she gave him those sharp, judgemental looks she had perfected over the years. Trudging into the bathroom, he allowed himself a moment of pure, self-indulgent acrimony. He stared into his own eyes, tired and dull after three late nights in a row, and wondered why he even bothered anymore. He had been sleepwalking through his life since the war and now he stood staring at his reflection; closer to thirty than twenty and with no clue where he was going, and felt a surge of disgust. He thought about yesterday, mere minutes before it all went to shit; when ‘Lizzie’ had actually asked him out. She had blurted it out like a flustered schoolgirl, as if she hadn’t been holding him hostage all night with her sly grins and wandering hands, and he had just frozen; one split second of elation almost immediately tainted by the certain knowledge that the moment she saw his face she would realise what a scumbag he really was.

He let out a short, bitter laugh. How wrong he had been; she had known what a scumbag he was long before the rest of the world did.

Alright, time to stop being so morose. As his mother had once told him; ‘Malfoys don’t wallow’. The irony of this had not been lost on Draco, since at the time he had been taking his lead from his father, who had been doing nothing _but_ wallowing for several months; moping around the manor like a ghost and refusing to eat until his wife berated him into doing so. Even now it wasn’t so very different; his mother flitted around the place, consumed by her obsession with ‘public relations’ while his father smiled and nodded and pretended not to be a broken shadow of his old self.

Draco sighed and dragged his palm over the stubble on his jaw. He should shave really, but he simply couldn’t be bothered. He’d spent the last three nights dressed up to the nines, and right now he wanted nothing more than to lounge around the house in his boxers and, well, wallow.

“Fuck it.” He muttered, yawning and plodding grumpily back into the bedroom.

Alas, apparently wallowing just wasn’t in the cards, because barely thirty seconds after he had sat down with a very strong cup of coffee, the floo roared to life in the other room.

“Draco?” came his mother’s shrill voice. Draco groaned loudly.

“What are you doing here, mother?” he asked, resisting the urge to simply run back to the bedroom and pretend to be asleep. It had never worked before, but there was a first time for everything. His mother swept into the kitchen, fully dressed and made up as if she was on her way to a photo-shoot for Witch Weekly.

“Ah, there you are- oh honestly, Draco, have you no shame?” She exclaimed dramatically upon seeing that he was clad in just pyjama bottoms, “Put some clothes on.”

“It’s my house, mother,” he said tiredly, “Anyway, it’s not as if I’m naked or something, which I would be completely within my rights to be, since it is- as I mentioned before- _my house_.”

Antagonising his mother rarely ended well, but since he’d got up his headache had gone from a mild annoyance to a pulsating pain that made him feel as if his head was being squeezed by a troll. He didn’t know if it was because of the cheap whiskey or because of the truly terrible night’s sleep he’d had, but he was in no mood for his mother’s usual machinations.

“Get dressed.” She commanded, pointing imperiously in the direction of his bedroom as if she was sending him to bed without supper.

“I haven’t even had my coffee yet-”

“Don’t pout,” she snapped, clearly unfazed by his obvious surliness, “It’s unseemly. As is receiving guests in a state of undress, I might add.”

“You turned up unannounced, how could I-”

“Draco,” she said in a singsong voice that instantly turned him from a grown adult to a sulky teenager.

“Ugh, fine.” He muttered, picking up his coffee and reluctantly stomping back to the bedroom.

“Good, and do be a dear and send whatever trollop you brought home last night on her merry way, would you?”

He paused in the kitchen doorway, his shoulders tensing as once again, those damn memories washed over him. He had forgotten for a moment there, his mother’s overbearing presence briefly eclipsing his grouchy introspection.

“Must you, mother?” He ground out through clenched teeth, trying not to remember any more painfully graphic details of last night. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m alone.”

“None of my business?” She scoffed, wrinkling her nose in distaste as she looked around the kitchen, her eyes falling on the bottle of whiskey he’d left out. “That’s rich, given that stunt you pulled last month-”

“That wasn’t my fault and you know it-”

“It doesn’t matter that it wasn’t your fault, Draco! What matters is that you should never have been in that ridiculous position in the first place! _Everyone_ was talking about it for weeks... Honestly, do you not spend even half a second thinking about how your actions affect this family?”

Draco scoffed and rolled his eyes, then regretted it as another spike of pain jolted over his temples.

“There cannot have been more than twelve people at the Manor that night; it was hardly a national scandal. A few of your friends raising their eyebrows and bitching behind your back is not the same as ‘everyone was talking about it’.”

She said nothing, but the way she pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes was an unmistakable warning that he was dangerously close to stepping over the line. He sighed.

“Alright,” grunted Draco, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Alright, mother, why are you here?”

“I can’t visit my son-?”

“Why are you here?” he repeated, folding his arms and giving her a look he hoped conveyed in no uncertain terms that he was too tired and too grumpy for beating around the bush. They locked eyes for a moment, sizing each other up, then she sighed and shook her head solemnly.

“Have it your way then,” she said, gesturing to his empty chair.

Draco warily sat back down at the kitchen table, still in his pyjamas. He took a very small victory sip of coffee.

“Where were you last night, Draco?”

His blood seemed to freeze in his veins, and he paused for a second with his cup halfway to his mouth.

“I was at the party,” he offered, schooling his expression into curious impassivity, “When exactly are you asking about?”

“Don’t give me that look, Draco,” she scoffed disdainfully, “Your father might not care enough to push you, but don’t insult my intelligence by assuming that I’ll fall for this embarrassing performance.”

“It’s not a performance,” he grumbled, hating how petulant his voice sounded, “I was at the party, you saw me.”

“I saw you when we arrived, yes, then you disappeared without a trace for the rest of the night. I thought at the very least I ought to check you weren’t dead in a ditch somewhere.”

“How sweet of you,” he muttered sarcastically, “Just checking on my wellbeing then; that’s why you’re here?”

“You are trying my patience, Draco. You are a grown adult; act like it.”

“Am I? I’m not a ten year old being lectured by his mother about proper party etiquette?”

“That is not the issue, and you know it,” his mother snarled, apparently done with subtlety, “I have been planning this event for _months_ , Draco, the amount of organisation that went into it was _staggering_ , and it was without a doubt, the biggest, most widely publicised event I have been involved with since before the war. Now, a significant perk of this event, was the fact that at the end of it, after Potter’s insipid speech on togetherness and Merlin knows what other drivel, everyone who matters in the wizarding world would be in one room to see the Malfoy family together, united in their regret, in their commitment to the progress into a new and better world,”

“Oh…”

“But the time came, the speech finished, the whole room swivelled to look at us as he thanked the hostesses, and _you weren’t there_.”

She spat those last few words with such vitriol that Draco almost hung his head, but he knew from bitter experience that the worst possible thing he could do right now is start gushing apologies, it would only make her angrier and confirm his own guilt, so instead he took another sip of coffee, keeping his expression carefully neutral as his mother gathered herself.

“How many times did I tell you, Draco? How many times did I make it _painfully_ clear that the only time I actually needed you by my side, standing with your family was during the speech? I swear, the pained expression on Potter’s face as he said my name was bad enough, but the look that insufferable Granger girl gave me was-”

“What?”his head snapped up at the mention of her name, and immediately he hated himself for it.

“She looked as if she was disappointed in _herself_ for daring to think better of us. Conceited little-”

“Mother…” he warned. ‘That’ word had long since faded from the Malfoy family’s everyday vocabulary, but there were a few choice individuals- Granger included- that his parents seemed to have decided were exceptions to the rule.

“Oh don’t be so squeamish, Draco. Times may well have changed but as far as I’m aware I’m still permitted to have personal opinions about specific individuals.” She sniffed haughtily and gave him a sharp look. “In any case, don’t think you can distract me so easily. Where were you, Draco?”

 _Fingering that insufferable Granger girl in a darkened storage cupboard._ Fucking hell, even thinking it was enough to send a wave of heady, forbidden arousal through him, followed swiftly by a cloud of shame so oppressive that it almost made him dizzy.

“I left early,” he said, looking down into his coffee, “I didn’t feel well.”

“You didn’t feel well.” Repeated his mother in a flat, cold voice.

“Yes.”

“So you rushed home without so much as a single word to me or your father-”

“Yes-”

“-And then proceeded to drink half a bottle of cheap whiskey to perk yourself up?”

This time Draco did hang his head. He sighed ruefully and shrugged.

“What do you want me to say, mother? I had a bad night, I wanted to get away from that stupid party, so I did. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, I wasn’t thinking.”

His mother sniffed and shifted in her chair as if to say; ‘it’s a start’.

Privately, despite his exhaustion and pounding headache, Draco was rather pleased with himself; he rarely got away with lying to his mother, and almost every word of that had been a lie- except the fact that he had wanted to get away. He’d wanted to be anywhere else so badly he had actively avoided his parents on his way to the apparition point, knowing they would only twist his arm into sticking around for that damn photo opportunity, and he wasn’t sorry for it, not in the slightest. Also, even after the truly catastrophic ending, even after his fantasy had been torn apart to tiny, bitter shreds, he still wasn’t quite sure he’d say that overall it had been a bad night. Buoyed by his apparent success, he decided- perhaps unwisely- to add another lie to the pile.

“Oh, and for the record, that bottle was already half empty.”

His mother hummed sceptically and gave him a look that said; ‘don’t push it’, but Draco only half-registered it. He was already lost in his thoughts again, distracted by his own choice of words.

_For what it’s worth, I believe you…_

Her words echoed in his mind, and he remembered with piercing clarity the subtle sadness that had threaded through her voice, the way she had refused to meet his eyes as she fled into the night. Suddenly, he became aware that his mother had been speaking while he had bee daydreaming.

“What?” he mumbled, blinking rapidly to try and scour his mind of her. His mother gave him a withering stare.

“I _said_ ; you’re clearly no good to man nor beast in this state, so you’ll be happy to hear that I will leave you to your squalor.”

“Squalor, mother? Really?”

“You’re right of course; who am I to comment on your utter refusal to live up to the manner in which you were raised? As you take such delight in reminding me; you are a grown man.”

And with that, she stood up dramatically, making a show of adjusting her elaborate, fur-collared coat, and swept out of the room and back to the floo without another word.

Draco groaned loudly. He could have handled that better; he’d be in the doghouse for weeks now. Suddenly he was struck by the incredibly strange thought that in another, vastly different universe, his mother and Granger might have got along quite well; their disapproval of him alone would provide them with conversational topics for years. He shook his head distractedly as he tried to banish the frankly creepy image of Hermione Granger chatting amicably to his parents.

There was no way his mother would have let him get away with being so obstinate so easily if she didn’t already have an idea of how he was going to make up for it, and he knew in his heart of hearts that the only way out of it was going to be painful.

Well, such was life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be one chapter split into two POVs, but it ended up stupidly long, so here we are.


	14. The Morning After the Night Before - Hermione

Hermione awoke to a loud ringing and bright sunlight streaming though the gap in her curtains. She felt as if it had only been a few minutes since she’d first shut her eyes.

She groaned into her pillow and swatted in the vague direction of her alarm clock, which she had forgotten to turn off last night. After the speeches and the fireworks were finished, they had all retreated back to Grimmauld Place, where it was quiet enough that they could all take a breath and raise a glass to absent friends before calling it a night. That part of the night at least had been lovely, even if it had been rather subdued and bittersweet.

With a grunt of exertion she rolled over and turned off the alarm, sighing in satisfaction at the sudden, blissful silence. It was Monday, but for obvious reasons the Ministry wouldn’t be opening properly until the afternoon today, and while Hermione had been looking forward to the lie in, now she was here she wished she had work to distract her. She’d barely slept last night, tossing and turning for hours on end as her brain jabbered on, alternating between panic and embarrassment and cold, logical analysis. However, this situation evidently defied logic, because she had been thinking about it for several hours, and she was no closer to making any sense of it, or more importantly, she wasn’t any closer to making sense of her feelings about it.

She had wanted to be someone else for a night, and she’d got her wish. She had wanted someone to see her as something other than a perfect figurehead or a domineering crusader, and she’d got her wish… for a while. Despite her moment of humiliating hopefulness in which she had asked him out, Hermione hadn’t expected them to ride off into the sunset together, and she would have been satisfied (if a little disappointed) if they had just gone their separate ways with the mystery intact. To say she disliked the way it had actually ended was something of an understatement.

But, well… she couldn’t quite bring herself to regret it. Everything else aside, she had told him; ‘I know enough’, and she had meant it. Not that she would have done _any_ of it if she’d known it was him, not in a million years, but that was just it; she had accepted the fact that she didn’t know his true identity, and all the possibilities that came with that fact. At the end of the day, it was unfortunate, it was awkward and embarrassing, but it was still better than if he had turned out to be married, and most importantly, at least they hadn’t been _caught_. Yes. That was a good takeaway of the situation. Not as bad as it could have been.

Her worries briefly mollified, Hermione got up and wandered downstairs to make herself tea. Everything was better with tea. Maybe she would go into work early, she certainly had plenty to do and at least it would be quiet at the office after the weekend’s festivities. She yawned as she watched the kettle boil, she supposed she could just boil it with magic, but something about the ritual of making tea was soothing, the slight delay making that first sip all the more satisfying.

Hermione mentally ran through her to-do list while the tea brewed; she had to chase the representative from Magical Law Enforcement for their annual report on the mistreatment of magical creatures, she still had to go over the proposed changes to her latest policy amendment, and there was that bloody induction day she had been roped into running, she’d been putting off planning it for weeks, but now the masquerade was over she had no excuses left. Normally she didn’t mind showing new Ministry employees the ropes, but she was so mentally and emotionally exhausted after all the twists and turns of last night, the very thought of it made her brain feel like soup. Plus that one woman from Recruitment would be there, and she always managed to raise Hermione’s hackles somehow, no matter what she said.

She wondered if that was the type of tittering moron he usually went for, then immediately scolded herself for the thought. It was petty and unworthy of her. Plus, why on earth should she care what sort of person he usually went for? He’d said it yesterday; she wouldn’t have been his first choice, and he _certainly_ wouldn’t have been hers. At least he had apologised. It was the only part of last night that she remembered with genuine, untainted satisfaction, and it was a show of good faith that went some way towards assuaging any worries she might have had about him doing something really low, like trying to blackmail her. A week ago she wouldn’t have put it past him, but despite everything, she couldn’t help but see it as an important step in the right direction. Not that it erased everything of course, he was undeniably still a bit of an arsehole to say the least, but baby steps were still steps.

She finished making her tea and frowned slightly as she realised that she had just spent several minutes of her free time thinking about Malfoy. Now that was disturbing.

At least she didn’t have any more events for a while. Truth be told, after all the drama of last night she’d be happy if she didn’t have to so much as look at formal wear for another decade, but she knew she had no such luck. It wasn’t all bad though, at least she only had to attend most of the time, poor Harry was expected to actually speak at these things. She had to admit though, he didn’t seem to hate it quite as much as she did, public speaking came naturally to him, and she was sure that he and Ginny had developed some sort of secret drinking game for these events. She tried to remember if she had enjoyed it more when she had been attending all the parties and balls with Ron, but she was pretty sure she’d always been fairly cynical when it came to so-called high society, date or no date.

She curled up on the sofa, cradling her mug in her hands and wondering if she should have made a pot. She set down the tea and started reading her book, but she was finding it unusually difficult to concentrate; her mind kept wandering back to last night, and him.

God, but it had felt so _real_. Before everything went to shit, when he was ‘Oscar’, she had been enjoying herself more than she had in quite some time. Gently teasing each other, laughing and just being herself, without the fetters of her reputation to dictate how she should act. He kept finding ways to touch her, his hand lightly resting on her waist or his thigh pressed against hers when they sat next to each other, then the kissing… good god, the _kissing_. She would never admit it to a living soul, but Draco Malfoy was a truly _excellent_ kisser. She would also never admit that this fact actually did not surprise her, but she’d be lying if she ever thought in a million years that she’d be able to confirm her suspicions. What did surprise her was how, well, tender he had been. For all their breathless, lust-fuelled desperation to be closer to one another, he had never once pushed past her boundaries, never made her feel like she wasn’t the one making the decisions. Maybe tender was the wrong word. She wasn’t sure she’d describe him as gentle, not exactly, but… careful. It wasn’t a word she’d ever associated with him, at least not regarding the way he treated other people, and she found that this one, small detail was somehow the driving force behind her opinion of him starting to shift.

Damn it, she had just wanted a night off from being ‘perfect Hermione Granger’, and maybe a short, fun, anonymous fling. A sly, extremely unwelcome voice in the back of her mind reminded her of the reason she’d thought of having a fling in the first place; that damn dream. Somewhere in the seedy, cobwebbed depths of her subconscious she had fantasised about this, then she had gone and accidentally made it a reality. Well, whatever else it had been, it was over now.

She shook her head vigorously and tried to concentrate on her book, then decided that she would make a pot of tea after all, one cup just wasn’t enough. She got up to boil the kettle again, yawning and wishing she had stayed in bed. Her feet were killing her, she’d spent far too long standing around in three inch heels yesterday. Although to be fair most of that time she hadn’t noticed the creeping ache in the balls of her feet because she’d been far to distracted by her childhood enemy bringing her to exquisite, toe curling ecstasy in an empty storeroom. Maybe it had just been too long since the last time, but bloody hell, she wasn’t sure she’d ever had an orgasm that intense. His lips on her neck, on her mouth, telling her what he wished he could do to her while he-

“Shit!” She slapped the kitchen counted in frustration, making the mugs by the sink clink against each other.

It really should not have been this difficult to stop thinking about him. She wasn’t in love with him or anything, hell, she didn’t even like him, so why was she obsessing about one quick encounter as if she was some schoolgirl with a crush? Maybe it was just because it had been so long since she’d had anything but a kiss on the cheek, maybe her long-term neglect of her romantic life just meant that her body was reacting to this as if it was far more than it was. Yes, that must be it. Just a physical reaction.

She tapped her fingernails on the counter distractedly, staring into the middle distance. She shouldn’t, but… this didn’t need to be some great big emotional enigma, right? This was just a reaction to a pure, physical need, and physical needs were simple to solve. It would just be like scratching an itch. She did have the morning off after all…

She turned off the kettle and marched back to the bedroom, double and triple checking that the curtains were tightly shut before she shimmied out of her pyjamas. Ginny had long since moved out to live with Harry, but she shut the bedroom door anyway out of habit. She settled herself on top of the duvet, took a deep breath and allowed her fingers to trail down her abdomen and between her legs.

Her hands were cool, and it was all too easy to imagine they were his. _Oscar’s,_ she reminded herself firmly, _faceless mystery man of fantasy’s hands, not anyone else’s_. She mentally ran through all the teasing touches and heated looks of the two nights that had all built up until she was a squirming mess, begging him to take her somewhere private. His hand splayed on her waist as they danced, kissing him with reckless abandon in the gardens and feeling him shudder and groan as he licked into her mouth. The way he had lunged at her when he’d seen her dress on the second night… as if he had just been utterly overtaken by the raw, carnal desire to be skin to skin…

Hermione let out a low moan and scraped her teeth over her lower lip, shifting position slightly and twisting the duvet under her hips as she tried in vain to recreate the spine-tingling angle and rhythm that he had achieved yesterday.

She thought of his teeth on her neck, the coarse, wrecked quality of his voice as he’d growled sweet, filthy nothings into her ear. Twice he’d said he wanted to taste her, and suddenly all Hermione could think of was his tongue leaving burning trails of pleasure over her inner thigh, closer and closer until finally he would press his mouth to her centre, lips and tongue mapping the shape of her while he held her legs apart, fingers firmly gripping the soft skin of her thighs. She whimpered, unconsciously moving her fingers harder, faster.

“ _Oh_ ,” she gasped and as her breathing became more shallow, she imagined him looking up from between her legs, pale eyes twinkling- wait…

She moaned again, this time in frustration. Her brain had moved so smoothly from picturing masked-fantasy-man to picturing Malfoy that she almost hadn’t noticed.

This was a bad idea. Why had she ever thought this would work? How could she possibly separate the beautiful fantasy that Oscar had been before from the stark reality? Ignorance was bliss, and the terrible truth was that now she knew that it was Malfoy who had groaned against her lips, and Malfoy who had said he’d wanted to taste her, and no amount of mental gymnastics could erase that fact.

Then why the hell did she still want to keep going? Why in the name of any and all deities, was the image of his stupid, blonde head dipping down between her legs as he eased her knees apart burned into her brain? It hadn’t even happened! This was unacceptable.

She groaned and let her head fall back onto the pillow, closing her legs and trying to will away the pounding arousal that still thrummed through her veins.

She needed tea. Yes, more tea. And breakfast.

And possibly a cold shower.


	15. The Anti-Party Planner

Before the masquerade, Hermione had barely seen Malfoy for ten whole years, but now she felt like she couldn’t get rid of him. Four times; that was how often they had spoken in an entire decade, so why, oh why did he seem to be around every corner all of a sudden?

The Friday after the masquerade she had been dragged along to drinks at the Leaky Cauldron with Harry and Ron and some of the other Aurors, and just as she’d sat down with her G&T he came in. He had taken a few steps towards the bar as if he was about to get a drink, but then his eyes had fallen on her and he’d stiffened up, giving her a terse nod and then making a swift exit through the floo. Her friends had, to her pleasant surprise, abstained completely from grilling each other about the masquerade. It seemed that all of them had, in their own way, enjoyed some small part of the anonymity and had made an unspoken agreement not to ruin it for each other. Hermione doubted very much that Neville or Luna or Harry had done anything quite as scandalous as she had under the safety of their masks, but she appreciated their restraint all the same. Ginny was a little more pushy, and Hermione was sure she suspected something had gone on when she’d disappeared for the last two nights, but to her credit she hadn’t done much more than scrutinise her reactions when they spoke about the night in general. So at the very least they didn’t seem to be suspicious of Malfoy’s behaviour, if they noticed it at all.

The next week she had almost run right into him one morning when she was on the way to her office. She’d been so surprised to see him that she’d almost frozen on the spot in the middle of the crowded atrium, but she’d gathered herself quickly, managing to speed past him with another tight nod of greeting. This wouldn’t be so very shocking, but when she nearly ran into him again the very next day, this time as she was stepping off the lift, she began to suspect something was going on. She knew he didn’t work at the Ministry, in fact she wasn’t sure if he had a job at all, but he had to have some reason to be hanging around the place, especially since it was common knowledge that usually he wouldn’t get within ten feet of the Ministry if he could help it.

Hermione had made up her mind to try and subtly ask about it if she ran into him again, but as it turned out she didn’t need to wait for that, because on a Tuesday afternoon a little more than a fortnight after the masquerade, she was on her way out to get some lunch, wondering where she felt like eating while she waited for the lift when the lift arrived with a loud chime, and out stepped-

“Malfoy?” her mouth dropped open in surprise.

“Granger, just the person I wanted to see.”

“I- what? Is that sarcasm, Malfoy?”

“What? No, why would- don’t be so suspicious, Granger.” He said, adding a little eye roll that didn’t quite disguise his discomfort.

She was silent for a beat as her brain tried to process the idea that he had actually sought her out.

“I- I’m just surprised,” she said slowly, “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I actually did consider making a proper appointment-”

“To see _me_?” she blurted before she could stop herself. What weird alternate universe had she stepped into?

“Is that really so terribly difficult to believe?” he asked with a very small smile that she was ashamed to admit sent her heart fluttering. The lift door shut behind him.

“This isn’t- is this about-?” she lowered her voice to a hiss, looking up and down the corridor for any potential eavesdroppers.

“No, no, nothing like that,” he said quickly, raising his hands in a placating gesture, “Strictly business, I promise, though I’d prefer not to talk here. Do you have a minute?”

“I was actually just on my way to lunch, so-”

“That’s even better, the walls here have ears.”

“No, Malfoy, that wasn’t an invitation-”

“Five minutes, Granger,” he muttered under his breath, “And I’ll owe you a colossal favour.”

Hermione said nothing for a moment. She weighed up the awkwardness of sitting in a cafe with her old enemy and accidental one-time fling with the discomfort of having to drag him through the office, past the receptionist she had just told she was going to lunch and into her office for a closed door meeting that she had no doubt would cause more than a few whispers. She sighed and leant past him to press the button for the lift again.

“Say please.” She said.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

A few tense seconds passed, but finally she saw his shoulders drop in surrender and she felt a surge of savage pride.

“Granger, I would very much appreciate it if you would take a few minutes to help me out with this,”

The lift chimed again and the doors opened. Hermione raised her eyebrow, and he scowled, gritting his teeth.

“Please.”

“Lovely.” She said brightly, relishing his sour expression and gesturing for him to follow her into the lift.

And that was how Hermione Granger ended up eating her lunch sitting opposite Draco Malfoy in a muggle cafe a short walk from the visitor’s entrance. It was also very close to the heart of the muggle government, so while it had occurred to her that bringing him to a muggle cafe to discuss Ministry business, this place was well used to people bringing the office to lunch, and she doubted anyone would look twice at them for using a few strange terms like ‘magic’ or ‘wizard’. If anything people would probably assume that it was some sort of covert meeting requiring the use of codewords that was none of their business anyway.

“Alright,” she said, taking a sip of tea, “I’m almost afraid to ask, but what is this ‘business’ that you want to discuss somewhere the walls don’t have ears?”

“My birthday.”

Hermione’s cup had been halfway to her mouth, but it sloshed alarmingly as she looked up sharply and let out a snort of laughter.

“Wha- you can’t be serious,” she spluttered.

“I am.” He said grimly.

“Oh for- I thought this was something important, Malfoy!”

“Are you finished?” he sighed, giving her a deeply unimpressed look.

“Who uses phrases like ‘the walls have ears’ anyway? Talk about overdramatic…”

“I can see you’re amused, but this is going to take a lot longer if you keep this up,”

“Fine.”

“Good. Now, my mother is annoyed with me-”

Hermione couldn’t suppress another giggle, and he glared at her.

“What? Don’t look at me like that, this is funny, Malfoy. You come up to my office specifically to see me- you, Malfoy, came to see me, Hermione Granger-”

“Yes, I’m aware.” He grunted.

“Yes, well, naturally I assume only something really serious could push you to do such a thing, but now it turns out- what, did you piss off your mum and now she’s not letting you have a party?”

“Quite the opposite, actually.”

“Oh? Enlighten me.”

“This was a bad idea. Sorry for taking your time, Granger.” He said curtly, moving to get up.

“No, wait, I’m sorry,” she said quickly. She reached out to grab his elbow, but as he stood up she got his hand instead, and for a split second both of them froze, then she hurriedly dropped it, pulling her hand back in a flash. “I’m sorry, Malfoy, I’m just being- I’m just surprised, is all. Sit, please.”

For a moment he didn’t move a muscle, but then he sighed reluctantly and dropped back down into the chair.

“Don’t interrupt me this time.” He said tightly, “This is humiliating enough as it is.”

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes, and instead mimed zipping her mouth shut, intrigued despite herself.

“Good. Well. Suffice to say that I am not in my mother’s good graces, and she had decided the way that I am going to make it up to her is by allowing her to turn my birthday into some sort of national fucking event that she can use to chat up anyone she missed at- at the ten year party.” His eyes flicked to hers quickly, then back down to stare intently at the table. “Naturally, I would like to avoid that at all costs, and I’d also much prefer to avoid a confrontation with her, so-”

“So you want to mess with her planning from the Ministry end?” said Hermione incredulously, putting two and two together.

“You said you weren’t going to interrupt- but yes, basically.”

“So why on earth would you come to me?” she exclaimed, “I mean, sure, to say I’m not your mother’s biggest fan is something of an understatement, but you know I’m a policy-maker, right? Party planning isn’t exactly my area of expertise-”

“That you don’t like mother is just a bonus,” he said, waving his hand dismissively, “One which is mostly outweighed by the fact that you don’t like _me_ , I might add. No, I came to you for two reasons- maybe two and a half reasons.”

“I’m all ears,” she said dryly as he sat up straight, steepling his fingers as if he was gearing up to give her a lecture.

“One; the fact that you’re familiar with Ministry bureaucracy but don’t work in the specific departments I have to deal with means that you- theoretically of course- can give me advice without putting your own job in jeopardy. I doubt anyone who actually works in Events or Public Relations would be willing to help me sabotage my own birthday party, most of them are in my mother’s pocket anyway in one way or another.”

“And what makes you think-”

“That you’d be willing in the first place? That brings me to number two; mother craves legitimacy and respect, which means distancing our family from the events of the war, which in turn means that she intends to invite you and all your little friends, so she can get as many reporters as possible to take pictures of us speaking to put under a headline which says something about us finally burying the hatchet.”

Hermione groaned, and he nodded gravely. He took a sip of coffee, giving her a chance to wallow in the possibility of yet another press circus.

“I don’t claim to know you well, Granger, but I’ve every reason to believe that you’d be interested in preventing such an event. It’s hardly a secret that you don’t enjoy being in the spotlight.” He paused, frowning slightly as if he was mulling something over in his mind, then looked up at her. “We’ve got that in common.”

There was a lengthy pause in which they just looked at each other, not quite trusting yet, but just a little less suspicious.

“Well,” she said quietly, “Here’s a turn up for the books; Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy have something in common.”

He let out a short bark of laughter, and despite herself, Hermione felt her lip tug upwards. She sighed resignedly.

“Alright fine, when is this thing?”

“The week after next.”

“That soon? I mean it depends _how_ big it is, but you might not even need my help if it’s that short notice…”

“I’d rather not take that chance,” he muttered.

“Fair enough, I suppose. Ok, tell me exactly which permits you need to apply for.”

Half an hour later they had created a basic list of small, believable screw ups in the paperwork that would slow the process down enough that meeting the deadline of his actual birthday would be impossible. It was one of the strangest unofficial assignments she had ever done, and definitely one of the most surreal.

“Well,” she said as she picked at the remains of her sandwich, “I’d say to let me know how it goes, but if I receive an invitation I’ll know, won’t I?”

“I suppose so.”

“Why is your mum angry at you, anyway?”

“Oh, I-” he trailed off and looked away, clearly uncomfortable.

“You don’t have to tell me,” she said quickly, “I was just-”

“No, it’s- after we- at the very end of the masquerade, she wanted a photo opportunity, and I-”

“You weren’t there,” she murmured, feeling her cheeks heat as she remembered the hideous, sinking feeling in her stomach that night when she’d forced herself to look with everyone else, and seen with mingled relief and disappointment that he had disappeared. Now here he was, sitting before her in a bustling muggle cafe with a cardboard cup of coffee and an inscrutable expression on his face. Life was strange sometimes.

“I wasn’t there.” He said simply.

Suddenly Narcissa’s plan made perfect sense to Hermione. She would get her photo opportunity and punish her son with another night of tedious networking, killing two birds with one stone. It also explained why Draco hadn’t wanted to outright refuse her; he was in the doghouse. She could almost have laughed, but instead she just nodded silently and began to gather up her things.

“Well,” he said as they both stood up from the table.

“Yes,”

“Thanks, Granger, I owe you one,”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“Hmm, I don’t doubt it.” He said, the slightest curl at the corner of his lips. They held eye contact for just a little longer than was comfortable, and then she cleared her throat, looking away.

“Right, well,”

“Yeah,”

She gave him a small, lopsided smile and held her hand out.

“Nightmare as always, Malfoy,”

“Indeed,” he chuckled, and Hermione couldn’t help but notice that the sound was warmer and richer than his usual sneer.

She didn’t hate it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week has been a fucking emotional rollercoaster IRL, so sorry if the next few chapters seem disjointed or weirdly paced. Still, imperfect writing is better than no writing, right?  
> All the love to everyone else having a rough time right now. xxx


	16. The Enemy Box

Hermione kept an eye on her memos and her owl post for the next week, just in case, but no invitation came, so she assumed that their little covert operation had been successful.It seemed that Narcissa would have to get her photo opportunity on a different occasion. She had actually done rather well at keeping him out of her mind over the past several days. He didn’t seem to be around every corner at the Ministry anymore, and her work had got quite busy all of a sudden, so she had plenty of distractions, but every now and again, when her mind was quiet, she _remembered_.

It was a funny thing, because if she had to describe how she felt when she remembered it would sound horribly like she was infatuated, but she knew it was nothing so simple. The sheer tumult of emotions that descended on her when she thought of that night was overwhelming, butterflies in her stomach followed by a queasy surge of shame, then always the irrepressible, almost unbearable curiosity as she tried and failed to make sense of it all, of him. She was stubborn, she knew it, but even for her, she was surprised at how hard it was to remove Malfoy from the ‘enemy’ box in her brain. She kept telling herself that it shouldn’t be this much of an issue, that ten years was more than enough time to consider giving someone a second chance, but in the end she always just ended up confused and frustrated that she couldn’t mentally resolve the issue.

By the time Friday rolled around, she was so sick of having just her own thoughts for company she allowed her co-workers to coax her out of her office at a decent hour for once, to come for drinks with them after work, and while she had been reluctant to say the least, now she was here she was actually quite enjoying herself. Throwing herself into her work was reasonably effective in terms of keeping her mind on track, but she had to admit that it was beginning to make her grouchy and short-tempered. The Leaky Cauldron had been utterly packed, already colonised by people who had left work at five like they were supposed to, so they had traipsed down Diagon Alley until they reached a less crowded pub called the Salamander. Hermione had never been there before, and she gathered it was a fairly new establishment, at least by Diagon Alley standards. The decor looked modern and even the clientele seemed younger, it wasn’t the sort of thing that usually bothered her, but she had to admit, it was a nice change of pace from the dusty corridors of the Ministry, or even the well-worn comfort of the Cauldron, which seemed like it hadn’t changed in centuries, and it probably hadn’t.

She was well into her third glass of wine when she heard the unmistakable sound of Ginny’s raucous laughter, and she turned around to see not just Ginny, but the whole quidditch team practically fall through the door. Hermione caught Ginny’s eye and inclined her wine glass with a smile.

“Hermione!” yelled Ginny, making a number of Hermione’s co-workers jump in their seats. Hermione wasn’t surprised, Ginny’s volume control disappeared after roughly two beers.

It was a bit weird, seeing Ginny out with her teammates while she was with her Ministry colleagues, not that the problem was between the two of them, but in general the noisy revelry of the quidditch team clashed a little with the dry humour and far quieter preferences of Hermione’s co-workers. Usually they had Harry to bridge the gap, but not today, and she couldn’t help but notice one particularly snotty colleague of hers give one of Ginny’s teammates a disdainful glance. It was a bit like a room full of Percy’s and a room full of George’s being forced to socialise; sometimes alcohol helped, and sometimes it really, really didn’t.

Thankfully, today was one of the days when alcohol lived up to its name as a social lubricant, and before long the two groups had merged into one massive group, though to be fair this was mostly because Ginny had plonked herself down next to Hermione and the rest of the team had followed. Hermione had moved onto a gin and tonic now, and she was feeling pleasantly tipsy. For the thousandth time she asked herself why she didn’t do this more often. After the masquerade she had been so determined not to let herself get into the bottomless pit of work and social isolation again, but here she was, nearly three weeks since then and out at the pub for the first time in that whole period. She clinked the ice around in her glass and let the conversation flow around her for a moment as her mind began to wander. She had never been particularly good at having fun, it never quite came naturally to her in the same way as it seemed to with her friends; it wasn’t as if she _couldn’t_ have fun, but especially around people she didn’t know well, it always seemed to take…effort.

But she had managed to that night, hadn’t she?

She smiled to herself despite everything. Oh, she’d had fun alright. But there had to be come comfortable middle ground between drinking wine alone in front of the TV on a Friday night and fooling around in a cupboard with a complete (well, almost) stranger, right? She was pretty sure that Eoin from Regulation of Magical Creatures had been hinting that they should go for a drink, she’d never been great at reading those cues, but maybe she should just bite the bullet and ask him. Maybe she could do with a bit of normal romantic interaction to get her back to a baseline, and if more came of it all the better. At least no one would balk at the sight of the two of them; Eoin was nice, her friends didn’t hate Eoin, Eoin had never sat and watched her get tortured… as far as she knew, anyway. She blinked, surprised at the sudden and rather dark turn her train of thoughts had taken. She drained her glass.

“I’m going to get another drink,” she announced, “You want another one, Ginny?”

“Nah, I’m good,” she said, brandishing a half-full pint.

Hermione nodded and squeezed her way along the table, apologising as everyone shuffled and sucked their guts in to let her out. When she was finally free, she took a small breath and straightened her skirt, and she looked up just as the pub door opened and as if she had summoned him with her mind, in walked Malfoy. She froze for a second, but he didn’t see her, he was looking over his shoulder talking to Theo Nott, who had followed him in, sniggering about something that was making Malfoy roll his eyes. She took a breath and drew herself up. This was fine. It was not a big deal that two people who used to know each other happened to end up in the same pub, she could just give him a quick nod of greeting and get on with her night. Hermione took one step towards the bar, when there was a loud screech of a chair on the floor as one of Ginny’s teammates got up hurriedly.

“Theo!” she squealed, launching herself somewhat unsteadily at him. Theo smiled and kissed her, seeming amused at her tipsy exuberance.

“Hiya, Stella,” he muttered, looking suddenly uncomfortable as the entire enormous group turned as one to look at the newcomers. There was about two seconds of uncomfortable not-quite-silence, before the noise resumed and most of them went back to their drinks and their conversations.

Not Hermione though, and not Malfoy. Their eyes had met and there was a moment when it felt as if everything was hanging in the air between them, the two of them paralysed by indecision. It was Hermione who broke the stalemate; she had got up because she’d wanted a drink, and now she felt like she needed it, so she did her best to squash her silly awkwardness and made her way to the bar, avoiding eye-contact with anyone. She ordered her drink and leant on the bar, hoping she looked a lot more relaxed than she felt. At least the bar was a little way from the table, it gave her a moment to gather herself- well, it would have.

“Evening, Granger,” said Malfoy as he appeared at her elbow. Hermione sighed and sagged a little.

“Malfoy,”

“Didn’t expect to see you here,”

“The feeling’s mutual,” she said, a little too tightly. She sighed and turned to face him, giving him a small, apologetic smile. “It’s just a surprise.”

“To me too,” he muttered as the bartender returned with Hermione’s drink.

“What does that mean?”

“Oh, just Theo dragging me out against my will, same as ever,” he said, pursing his lips grumpily and suddenly looking exactly like his mother. Hermione smiled and took a sip of her drink to stop herself from giggling. He ordered her drinks and turned back to her. “What’s so funny?”

“It’s nothing,” she said, trying and failing to wrestle her smile under control. He sighed long-sufferingly.

“I’ll have you know I was having a perfectly lovely evening to myself before-”

“Before you went and ruined it by having friends?” she snorted.

“No- well, yes, a bit…”

“That’s what I thought.”

He sighed again and gave her a withering look.

“Does it get terribly tiresome always knowing the answer to everything, Granger?” he said dryly, “I’d ask if it sucks all the fun out of life, but something tells me there wasn’t much there to begin with-”

“Hey! I-I have fun…” she said, trailing off and hating the self-satisfied little smirk that tugged at his lip.

“Mhmm, of course you do,” he said, the barest hint of incredulity lacing his otherwise painfully mild tone. She scowled at him.

“Like you’re such a social butterfly,” she muttered, “I bet your perfectly lovely evening consisted of you, a big bottle of whisky and your right hand-” she cut herself off abruptly, suddenly mortified at her crudeness. Ginny was a terrible influence. That’s what she told herself anyway; deep down she knew that Ginny wasn’t the one that chose to have four (five?) glasses of wine on nothing but bar snacks and a shared portion of chips in her stomach.

He regarded her almost stoically, but his lip betrayed him, tugging upwards into an amused grin. Neither of them said anything for several seconds, and Hermione took a large gulp of wine out of sheer awkwardness. He cleared his throat as the bartender returned with a glass of amber liquid she assumed was whisky and a pint of beer which she assumed was for Theo.

“Can we just pretend that last sentence never happened?” she asked, and he let out a snort of laughter.

“Only if you want to use up your favour on it,”

“Ugh, you are the worst.”

“So I’ve been told.” He sighed, then gave her a sideways look, grinning wolfishly, “And for the record, I’m left handed,”

“What does that have to- oh for fuck’s sake.”

“Don’t give me that look, Granger, you were the one that brought it up-”

“Don’t remind me,”

“-I’m just updating your information, I know how you hate to be wrong,”

“Oh shut up,”

He smiled wider, seemingly pleased at the reaction he’d elicited.

She shook her head exasperatedly, but neither of them moved, even though now they both had their drinks. She had been genuinely enjoying herself earlier, but now she found herself strangely reluctant to return.

“So, Stella-?”

“Theo’s girlfriend, yeah,” said Malfoy, taking a sip of whisky and grimacing, “Must be nearly a year now, though you wouldn’t know it from the way they’re all over each other.”

Hermione opened her mouth to comment on the hypocrisy of this statement, but shut it quickly as she realised it was entirely possible that the last person he was ‘all over’ was her. She took another gulp of wine.

“How’s the party planning going?” she asked.

“Slowly,” he said, smiling impishly and taking a smug sip of whisky.

“Glad to hear it,”

“Don’t rule mother out yet though,” he said, frowning slightly, “Say what you will of my family, but we are not easily deterred.”

There was a small pause.

“Not by such pedestrian concerns as bureaucracy, or ‘proper procedure’ anyway,” he muttered, pulling a reluctant laugh from Hermione. Then he _smiled,_ and it sent a little flutter all the way through her body.

Alarm bells went off in her mind, and suddenly she saw with perfect clarity that she was standing here in a bar on Friday night, _flirting with Draco Malfoy_. She blinked rapidly to try to get her head together and her face under control.

“Anyway,” he continued, apparently not noticing her moment of unease, “I’d better get Theo his pint before he comes looking for me.”

“Yeah, I should get back too,”

He gestured with his glass for her to go ahead, holding Theo’s pint in his other hand, and when she turned around, she could swear she could _feel_ his eyes on her. She forced herself not to look back as she made her way back to the table. Unsurprisingly, everyone had shuffled up to close the space she’d left, but thankfully Ginny was still right on the edge of the table, so Hermione managed to bully her into sharing her chair for a while. Stella was now literally sitting on Theo’s lap at the other end of the table, and as Ginny returned to her heated, quidditch based conversation with one of the Ministry workers, Hermione saw Malfoy drag a chair from an empty table over to the other end of the long table. Theo was saying something to him, and she saw him laugh, a reluctant, rueful sort of grin that made it abundantly clear that he was not planning on having a good time tonight, and Hermione couldn’t help but watch, her mind foggy and slow, yet somehow enthralled by the movement of his face, as if she’d never seen it before. Then, as if he could feel her looking at him, he looked up and Hermione hurriedly looked down into her drink, which was somehow almost gone.

Her cheeks heated, and in a sudden, appalling moment of sobriety, she realised that she had been staring at him across the table as if she had wanted to climb him like a tree. It was too loud for her to hear anything he was saying, but he raised an eyebrow at her and smirked.

“Something on my face?” he mouthed, gesturing amusedly at his cheeks.

She shook her head, and she saw his lip curl upwards, and suddenly Hermione felt as if she was right back there at the Rosellin estate.

Shit.

She drained her glass and nudged Ginny next to her, clearly dragging her away from the argument just as she was hitting her stride.

“Yeah, but- hang on, this isn’t over, alright?” she said to the Ministry worker, who looked as if he was just now realising he had bitten off more than he could chew by starting an argument about quidditch with Ginny, “What’s up, Hermione?”

“I think I’m calling it a night,” she said, fighting to keep her eyes on Ginny and resist the temptation to glance down to the other end of the table.

“No, come on!”

“I’m knackered, Gin, I just want to go to bed,”

“Boo…”

“Another night, yeah?”

“Promise?”

“I-sure. Promise.” Hermione was going to regret that, she was sure.

“Good. Fine, go sleep but- is it me, or is Malfoy staring at us?”

“What? No.” She said, a little too quickly, and despite Ginny’s obvious drunkenness, she suddenly looked at Hermione shrewdly.

“Hmm.”

“You’re pissed, Ginny.” Said Hermione matter-of-factly, holding Ginny’s gaze even as every fibre of her being longed to confirm that he was indeed, staring.

“Regardless.” Said Ginny.

“Regardless; what? Regardless; _‘hmm_ ’?” she scoffed, and Ginny groaned loudly.

“I love you, Hermione, you know that, but every time you do that fucking McGonagall voice it makes me seriously question that love.”

“Charming.”

“Fine, go; go sleep.” She said, swatting in her general direction.

Hermione rolled her eyes affectionately and stood up, planting a kiss on the top of Ginny’s head.

“See you later,”

“Yeah,”

“Love you,”

“Love you too,” grunted Ginny into her pint.

Hermione chuckled to herself and manoeuvred around the crowded table to make her way to the floo, but she made the mistake of looking back at the table, and she caught his eye again. He looked every inch the cat that got the cream, smirking unapologetically, his pale eyes sparkling with mischief. She felt herself flush and looked away, quickening her pace and staring at her shoes until the green flames flared around her and finally faded away, and she was back in the safety of her own living room.

She’d realised something tonight; it had hit her like a lightning bolt, and she found herself in the rare and unsettling situation of not knowing how to proceed. She realised now why it was so very difficult to extricate him from the ‘enemy’ box in her mind: the ‘enemy’ box was the only thing stopping her from… from…

Fuck, she wanted to kiss him again- more than kiss if she was completely honest with herself.

Oh fuck; she wanted to kiss Draco Malfoy.

This was too much to deal with after an incredibly long week and five (six?) glasses of wine. She kicked off her shoes and undressed as she staggered to the bedroom, breathing a sigh of relief as she unclasped her bra and threw it towards the wash basket. She fell face down onto the bed and groped around in the covers for her pyjamas, groaning with the effort of hauling her body into a position where she could actually put them on. Being tired had mostly been an excuse to give Ginny, but now she was here the exhaustion pulled her down into the mattress as if she was made of lead. She could use a decent night’s sleep, and her problems would surely seem less daunting in the morning, when she had a clear head.

The last thought that crossed her mind before she sank into sleep was that she she really should have had a proper dinner before starting to drink, but then it was nothing but blurry dreams of sparkling, golden lights and vague sensations of a warm, firm body pressed close against hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the lovely words on the last chapter, sometimes the thought that something I've made has made someone somewhere in the world smile is the best possible medicine :)  
> I also have a tumblr, so if anyone fancies visiting or asking me any questions about this or any of my other fics or just general stuff come visit, especially since i'm crap at replying to comments here. It's incognitotoro.tumblr.com


	17. A Convenient Proposal

Draco wasn’t happy. He was tired, he was hungover, and he’d never admit it to a living soul, but last night hadn’t be nearly as fun once Granger had left.

Even before everything, he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t enjoyed antagonising her to some extent, but now it was different. The acid in her tone had been replaced by something much more playful- still really fucking sharp, but playful nonetheless. It was as if suddenly their verbal sparring was something she _wanted_ to do, something she actually enjoyed rather than something she endured with gritted teeth and the absolute bare minimum of politeness. He’d caught her staring, and while it was obvious that she’d had more than a few drinks, he had to admit that he found it rather charming how flustered she got, but it seemed he’d scared her off, and after that the night got a bit boring especially sine the only person he really knew was Theo, and he was quite occupied with his girlfriend. Of course, boring was still much better than something that would eventually end up in the tabloids, but that didn’t mean it was something to aspire to.

Still that wasn’t the main reason he wasn’t happy. The main reason was a disarmingly innocent looking letter sitting open on the kitchen counter. It had arrived this morning, his parents’ owl waking him from an uneasy sleep with its incessant tapping on his bedroom window. The letter contained both good news and bad news; the good news was that he and Granger’s efforts to sabotage his mother’s attempt to make his birthday party into a national holiday had been successful, the glacial pace of Ministry bureaucracy finally working for him rather than against him. The bad news was that for Narcissa Malfoy, a party that didn’t require any Ministry permits was still rather a large party. There wouldn’t be the same enormous turnout as the masquerade, but the last ‘small soiree’ his mother had thrown had had at least fifty guests, each with their own delicate, gilded initiation, and more than half of them with a branch or two connected to the same twisted, sprawling family tree. The old guard wasn’t what it used to be, but it was still very much present, even if it had to be behind closed doors.

He doubted his party would end up quite like that though, his mother wouldn’t bother with this much planning just because celebrating one’s birthday was the done thing; she wanted it to say something, something that would only be undermined if everyone there was a pureblood. Even so, he had spent longer than he cared to admit wracking his brain to figure out a way out of it, only to come up with absolutely nothing. The invitations were already sent, the food and drinks were bought, and he’d be very surprised if his mother hadn’t already picked out his outfit. He’d seriously considered owling Granger just to pick her brain, but the truth was that if he attempted further sabotage at a Ministry level he knew that his mother would be suspicious, and it wouldn’t take her long to figure out his hand in it. He didn’t even want to think of the chaos that would ensue if she figured out Granger’s hand in it.

Prevention was no longer an option, that much was clear; now it had to be about limiting the damage. There was no way he would get away with skipping his own birthday party, but he might be able to cut it short, maybe actually manage to have an alright night without whatever reporters his mother would manage to sneak in sniffing at his heels, and of course with the absolute minimum of schmoozing. But then there was the ever present possibility that this would turn out to be some sort of hideous attempt at matchmaking, and he would be pushed gently but firmly towards some inoffensive, reasonably pretty pureblood girl his parents had picked out for him, having already half-planned the wedding with her parents. Sometimes it was enough to make him want to scream, and the overwhelming feeling of being impossibly trapped broke through his carefully cultivated numbness. Actually, that was happening more and more these days, and despite everything he had done, despite everything him and his family went through, he found himself wanting to just burn it all to the ground. Not literally of course, he had no intention of going to prison for arson after- well- after everything.

He sighed and scowled accusingly at the letter over the rim of his coffee cup. Maybe he should stop being so petulant about it, it was only one night after all, he could endure one night, and even though it felt like it sometimes, his parents couldn’t _actually_ compel him to do anything he didn’t want to. Anyway, this was more or less the best case scenario; if he was really lucky his mother might even consider it enough to make up for his absence at the end of the masquerade. He doubted it, but he could dream.

Suddenly, he remembered the dream he’d had last night. It hadn’t been quite as intense as some of the others he’d had since the masquerade, which was presumably why he’d forgotten it until now, but it certainly wasn’t chaste. He’d been in Granger’s office, well, a facsimile of Granger’s office since he’d never been in there before, but she’d been sitting behind her desk looking at him like she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to slap him or slam him against the wall and snog his brains out. Then they were kissing, as if his brain had just decided the details on how they got there from standing at opposite ends of the room were irrelevant. Then, after an indeterminate amount of time with his hand buried in her hair and his tongue in her mouth, he had walked her back until her legs bumped against the desk, hoisted her up and proceeded to show her exactly how grateful he was for her help.

Draco blinked and exhaled heavily. After the war it had been nothing but nightmares, but they faded in time and before long he barely dreamt at all, he’d seen it as a blessing really, compared to the horrific, exaggerated visions of the events of the war, but recently it seemed like every other night he was dreaming of _her_. It was unsettling. He’d never really been one to obsess- not over women anyway- and he deeply disliked the implication that his subconscious didn’t want to move on from their accidental… encounter. After it had happened he’d been convinced it was just that; an accident, but then the dreams had started, and continued, and now the seed of doubt had been planted. Now in the back of his mind there was a thin, half-formed fear that on some level he _had_ known it was her, as if they were somehow subconsciously drawn to each other…

But no, that was ridiculous. Even if he did believe in such sentimental drivel, he certainly wasn’t going to act on it.

Still, he really should thank Granger properly, she had gone out of her way to help him when she could just as easily have told him to shove it.

That was only polite, right?

***

When Hermione awoke, she immediately decided that last night was a result of a little too much alcohol on not enough food. She forced herself to go about her weekend as normal, mentally (and occasionally vocally) scolding herself when her subconscious refused to toe the party line and drifted off into memories and fantasies of…

Well. It didn’t matter what the fantasies were about, did it? Because it wasn’t happening- not again, anyway.

By the time she got back to work she was so grateful to get a distraction from her constant mental policing that she got in nearly an hour early.

Now it was Wednesday, the only day of the week when Hermione didn’t accidentally stay at work several hours longer than she should do, because on Wednesdays she ate dinner at Harry and Ginny’s. The tradition had started soon after the war ended, when all the trials were finally resolved and the remnants of what used to be Dumbledore’s Army were scattered to the winds; Harry had made an open invitation for any of them to join him and Ron at Grimmauld Place for dinner. Then Ron had moved out and Ginny moved in, and the invitation became limited to once a week to avoid any awkward situations. The number of guests at the table had dwindled over the years, but she suspected everyone went once or twice a year; Hermione and Ron were still there most weeks, and during the school holidays Neville was always present. She didn’t have much hopes for a big turnout tonight though, especially since they had all seen each other just a few weeks ago. She rolled her shoulders, got up from her desk chair with a loud groan and began to gather up her things.

When she stepped out of the fireplace at Grimmauld Place, she knew she’d been right about the turnout, because the only sound was the crackling of the fireplace and the muted sounds of Ginny and Harry’s amicable bickering filtering in from the next room. Hermione smiled to herself and made her way towards the sound.

“Look, I’m just saying-”

“Merlin, I’m dating a psychopath…”

“Well, sorry, I didn’t realise it was such a dealbreaker for you- oh, hi Hermione.”

“Hi, I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

“No, of course not,”

“Speak for yourself,” said Ginny, tossing her hair exaggeratedly, “Sorry about this, Hermione, I’m just now discovering Harry’s freakish and deviant-”

“Um, do I actually want to hear this-?”

“-way of making tea.”

“Freakish and deviant?” exclaimed Harry, “Come on, Gin, it’s not that weird to put milk in first - back me up here, Hermione,”

“Ok,” laughed Hermione, “It is a bit weird, yeah, but Ginny, you’ve been living together for a year! How are you just now discovering this?”

“It’s because she doesn’t get up before noon most days,” said Harry, slightly sourly.

“It’s not my fault Quidditch teams don’t run on the same insane schedule as the Auror office. Anyway, don’t change the subject. Hermione agrees that it’s weird.”

“I am going to change the subject, because this is a stupid thing to argue about,” said Harry, standing up from the sofa, “Do you want a drink or something, Hermione?”

“No, thanks,” she said, immediately dropping down onto his now vacant spot on the sofa.

“Alright, well it’s probably just the three of us tonight; Ron’s bogged down in the Hopkins case, so do you fancy a takeaway?”

“Sure,”

“Did you know about this?” demanded Ginny, grinning through her mock indignation as Harry rolled his eyes and slouched off in search of takeaway menus.

“The tea? Yeah, we did share a tent for several months, though at the time Harry’s tea-making method was kind of the least of my worries.”

“That’s fair. Oh, by the way, are you busy this Friday?”

“No, I don’t think so,”

“Good, so you’ll come with me to Stella’s engagement party.” She said it with such easy, disarming confidence that Hermione almost just nodded and agreed without even thinking about it.

“Wait, what? Stella’s engaged?”

“Oh yeah, I forgot to mention, apparently Theo proposed last weekend.”

“Oh, well, good for them, I suppose,”

“Yeah, so you’ll come?”

“Hang on, I barely know Stella, anyway, isn’t Harry going with you?”

“He’s busy with some work thing,” she said, waving her hand dismissively and taking a sip of her wine, “And I wouldn’t worry about not being best friends or anything, Stella’s been your biggest fan since you helped her with that whole visa mess.”

“It was only helping her with the paperwork, anyone vaguely familiar with Ministry bureaucracy could have-”

“But anyone didn’t; you did. The rest of the team like you too, we’d be one beater down if you hadn’t bothered.”

“But-”

“Come on,” wheedled Ginny, “Normally I wouldn’t care going on my own, but it’s- I don’t exactly get along well with her fiance’s mates, you know?”

“And by ‘her fiance’s mates’, you mean that-”

“It’s a teeny bit like Hogwarts two-point-oh, yes.”

“Oh for- Ginny, what on earth makes you think me coming would improve this situation?”

“Safety in numbers?”

Hermione gave her a withering look as Harry returned.

“Twisted her arm, have you?” asked Harry with a smirk as he dropped a stack of paper menus on the coffee table.

“It’s not really that bad,” said Ginny, “Theo tries to be nice, it’s just… uncomfortable. No one else on the team was in either of our years at Hogwarts, and Stella was at Beauxbatons, so there’s not the same…”

“History?” offered Hermione quietly.

“Yeah,” said Ginny gratefully, “I don’t feel threatened or anything like that, and it’s not like any of them are anywhere near as bad as they were, It’s just that sometimes it feels like there’s a lot of them and just one of me, you know?”

Hermione sighed and looked at Harry, who just shrugged as if to say; ‘she’s not wrong’. Well, if Harry of all people wasn’t actively denying that they weren’t as bad as they used to be…

“Alright, alright fine, I’ll go for moral support.”

“Yes, thank you so much, Hermione! I owe you,”

“Hmm,” she hummed sceptically, but started to grin despite herself.

“It won’t be that bad, I’m sure. We’ll have fun, promise.”

Hermione seriously doubted her ability to keep that promise, but she sighed anyway.

“No formal wear?”

“No formal wear.”

“Good,” said Harry brightly, “Now that’s dealt with, are you two up for curry? We went to this one last month and they do an amazing beef rendang.”

“Sure,” said Hermione vaguely.

What had she just agreed to? She hadn’t heard a word from Malfoy since last week, but given that it was obvious he was still friends with Theo, the chances of him being absent on Friday seemed pretty low, in fact she wouldn’t be surprised if he turned out to be the best man. Still, from what Ginny had said it would be a reasonably busy affair, with a lot of people expected to turn up at various points in the night, it shouldn’t be so very difficult to avoid him. All she had to do was stop Ginny from starting a fight (which she knew from experience was harder than it sounded) and leave as soon as she was able. As long as she did that it would be fine.

Hermione had really hoped the next day would pass uneventfully, but just as she was about to get up for lunch that afternoon there was a knock at her office door, and somehow she just knew it wasn’t going to be some random colleague with a question or a form that required her signature.

“Yes?” she called.

“Sorry to bother you, Ms Granger, but um- Draco Malfoy is here to see you?”

“Of course he is…” she muttered under her breath.

“Shall I tell him to make an appointment?”

“No, no it’s fine, come in,” she sighed. The door opened and Maggie, the department’s receptionist came in, looking a little nervous. Hermione sympathised, she was barely a year out of Hogwarts and she clearly hadn’t been expecting anyone as notorious as Draco Malfoy to turn up asking for an unscheduled meeting.

“Sorry, Ms Granger, it’s just-”

“It’s fine, really, Maggie,” she said in what she hoped was a reassuring tone, “I’ve got a few minutes, you can send him in.”

Maggie nodded and left to fetch Malfoy, and Hermione hurriedly straightened herself, smoothing down her shirt and trying to arrange her face into a mask of indifference. When he appeared in her doorway though, her stomach gave a little lurch that she couldn’t quite explain.

“This is a surprise,” she said, managing to keep her tone neutral.

“I was in the neighbourhood,” he said with a shrug.

“In the-?”

“I was finishing off a few last errands for mother’s- for _my_ birthday party.”

“I thought- that is, I didn’t get an invitation, and I hadn’t heard anything-”

“It’s just a regular sized party now, Granger,” he chuckled, gesturing at the chair on the other side of her desk, “May I?”

“I- sure, but I really do only have a few minutes.”

“That’s fine, I only came here to thank you in person.” He said as he sat down smoothly, and Hermione wondered how a person could manage to look so intolerably smug even when expressing gratitude.

“Really?” she said, not managing to conceal the blatant incredulity in her voice.

“Is that really so terribly difficult to believe?” he sighed, and Hermione suddenly felt guilty, then angry, then guilty again.

“It’s hard to break the habit of a lifetime,” she said quietly.

There was a small pause in which the two of them just looked at each other, and she thought she felt an understanding she couldn’t quite put words to pass between them.

“Yes well,” he cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, “Past habits aside; here I am.”

“Yes, here you are.”

There was another pause.

“Thanks, Granger, I know it was hardly a matter of life and death, but I appreciate your help all the same.”

“I- well, you’re welcome, I suppose,” she said, regarding him curiously. It was one thing to bump into each other at a bar, one thing for him to seek her out for a favour, but it was quite another to come all the way up to her office in person just to say thank you. She wouldn’t have batted an eyelid if Harry or Ron did something like this, but they were her friends, and while she wasn’t quite sure she’d call him an enemy anymore, friends seemed like a bit much. Apparently her scrutiny was a bit off-putting, because he broke eye contact and cleared his throat again.

“I won’t pretend I’m looking forward to Saturday, but its still a damn sight better than the circus it would have been if mother hadn’t- if you hadn’t helped. Hopefully it’ll be nice and boring and done by 9pm.”

“And you say I’m no fun.”

“I said nothing of the sort,” he said with a smirk that made Hermione’s cheeks heat.

“Yes you absolutely did,” she said, scowling, “More times than I can count.”

“In any case, I fully intend to spend my actual birthday cultivating a hangover that will make my party seem like the lesser of two evils.”

“Wait- Saturday isn’t your birthday?”

“Tomorrow’s my birthday,”

“Oh, so- so Stella and Theo’s thing-”

“You heard already?”

“Um, yeah, Ginny.”

“Ah, of course,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck a little awkwardly, “Well, yes, mother had already planned the party for Saturday, so I may have- ah- encouraged Theo to do the engagement party on Friday. If I have to celebrate, I’d much rather celebrate at an event where the attention is on someone else anyway.”

“I suppose I can understand that,”

He nodded and she began to tap her fingernails distractedly on her desk.

“Right, I’ll uh- I’ll leave you to your lunch then,”

“Ok, thanks,”

“Right,” he got up from the chair and gave her a quick nod before turning to leave.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then, I suppose,”

“Huh?” he turned around, his hand still on the doorknob.

“What?”

“Tomorrow?” he was frowning, and Hermione suddenly felt very self-conscious, fervently wishing she hadn’t said anything.

“I- oh, Ginny twisted my arm and I said I’d go with her tomorrow,”

“Oh,”

“But I can make an excuse or something if it’s going to be weird-”

“No, no you don’t have to do that,”

“It’s fine, really, call it a birthday favour,” she said with a shrug, but he was already shaking his head.

“No, I-I was just surprised, it’s fine that you’re coming.”

“Really?” she asked sceptically.

“Yeah, it’s good,” he said with the smallest hint of a smirk, “This way I won’t be the biggest fun sponge there.”

“’Fun sponge’? Really?” She gave him her best withering look, but his grin just widened and he cocked his head infuriatingly.

“If the shoe fits,”

“Get out of my office, Malfoy.”

“Nightmare as always, Granger,”

“Sure,” she muttered, flapping her hand at him to leave.

He gave her another grin and disappeared, leaving Hermione alone again.

She sat in silence for a minute or so, unpacking the contents of this latest encounter until she remembered she was going to go for lunch. If she didn’t know better, she might almost have thought that he had come up here just to spend time with her. She scoffed to herself as she gathered up her things and shrugged on her jacket. He was being a halfway decent human being, that was all. To be fair, that was more than she would have expected from him a few months ago, but it was a far cry from him actually liking her or wanting to be her friend.

She paused briefly with her hand halfway to the doorknob. What if- what if he wanted- no, that was a step too far. Absurd.

Even if she was perilously close to admitting that she wanted to…

What if…

No. Absurd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little snippet of Draco's POV today, but the next chapter is all him, so hopefully it'll tide you over until then. 
> 
> I feel like I could re-name this fic; 'Hermione and Draco refuse to admit they enjoy having fun for literally tens-of-thousands of words'... it's just too much fun writing grumpy people.


	18. Many Happy Returns

It had been a full twenty-four hours since he’d left Granger’s office, and Draco was still mortified. What was it about that woman that somehow always managed to reduce him to a fumbling, stuttering teenager? Merlin, even when he _was_ a teenager he hadn’t been that awkward! It had never been like this before, he’d always been his usual, acerbic self, and she had always just rolled her eyes and made some snarky comment, and then they had gone their separate ways- until recently. He sighed. It simply hadn’t occurred to him that she might be attending Theo’s engagement party, and once he’d realised she would be there, his idle flirtations suddenly seemed like more than just messing with her and watching her squirm. Now they felt horribly as if he had been unconsciously laying the groundwork for… something. Now his plans to get stupidly drunk seemed not just unseemly (as his mother would say) but _dangerous_.

The whole fiasco at the masquerade had been a fluke, but now they knew full well who they were, and alcohol was not the same as ignorance, if it happened again it would be catastrophic and irreversible, not to mention far more public. No, it was a terrible idea. Maybe he ought to dust off his occlumency skills, since Granger was apparently fully capable of decimating his self-control even without knowing she was doing it. He hated this feeling, like he was out of control; even when he was drunk he knew he was still (broadly speaking) in control of his body, if really set his mind to something he would do it- _could_ do it, and he hated the idea that he was somehow being lured towards Granger against his will. His conscious will anyway, he couldn’t speak for his treacherous subconscious. There was nothing for it, he’d had to just put every inch of his mental fortitude into not letting himself get carried away. It shouldn’t be so hard, there would be loads of people there tonight, plenty of distractions from Granger and her deceptively talented tongue.

“Ugh…” he groaned loudly and pinched the bridge of his nose. What was _wrong_ with him?

He started to make himself more coffee, then changed his mind and made a cup of earl grey. Being jittery with caffeine was hardly going to help his over-thinking. The floo roared to life in the next room, and for once in his life he was glad to hear his mother’s piercing voice calling his name; if anyone could distract him, it was her.

“In here, mother,” he called.

His mother swept in, followed closely by his father, and she leant down to press a kiss to his cheek in an uncharacteristic display of affection. It felt strange, as if it neither of them were really themselves.

“Happy birthday, darling,”

“Yes, happy birthday, Draco,” said his father, slightly stiffly.

Draco smiled. Yes, it would be fine. It was his birthday, and he wasn’t going to let some silly infatuation overshadow it.

Several hours later, he was sitting with Theo and Stella with a glass of eye-wateringly expensive whisky, and it seemed like it really would be fine. The happy couple had hired out the upstairs room at a bar in muggle London which was apparently owned by the husband of someone in the Muggle Liaison Office, and it had become something of a haven for wizards and witches craving an escape from the insular wizarding world. It wasn’t Draco’s usual thing, but apparently the quidditch team came here often, and he had to admit, they had an impressive stock of whiskys. It had been slowly filling up for the last hour. At first Draco had been tense, apprehensive about the reunion of so many people he’d known from Hogwarts, both friends and… otherwise, but another hour passed and still there was no sign of Granger or Weasley, and he was feeling quite confident in his ability to not make a complete twat of himself.

Then Granger turned up, and his willpower went out the window.

“Ginny! And Hermione, I’m so glad you came!” said Stella joyfully, getting up to pull them both into a hug.

“Of course we came!” said Weasley, laughing.

“Congratulations!” said Granger.

He could hear them over the low buzz of conversation, but truth be told, Draco barely registered their words, he was too busy staring in rapt fascination at Granger. With the notable exception of the masquerade, he hadn’t seen her in anything but smart office wear in several years, and while she was certainly less dressed up today, the overall effect was... enticing, though he wasn’t sure he could fully articulate why. She wore tight jeans with heeled ankle boots and a plain black t-shirt that was immensely flattering to her figure. She was more casual than many of the women here, most of whom were wearing cocktail dresses of one sort or another, but that just made it more attractive somehow, though again, he couldn’t quite say exactly why. It wasn’t that she stood out exactly, but there was something so uniquely unexpected about the way she was dressed that he couldn’t stop noticing tiny details, like how her hair seemed much less ridiculous when it wasn’t on the backdrop of a sensible trouser suit in a dusty Ministry office, or how comfortable she looked as she laughed at something Stella said.

Theo had got up to join Stella now, and as he greeted the new arrivals, Granger smiled widely and looked around, and her eyes finally fell on him. Draco resisted the urge to panic and look away, and instead raised his glass slightly in greeting and smiled, hoping it wasn’t glaringly obvious that he had been staring at her like a pervert. She didn’t seem uncomfortable at least, even returning his smile for a moment before quickly turning back to the happy couple. Draco desperately tried to think about something- _anything_ else, focusing on an empty stretch of bar until he became aware of Theo making his way back. Stella had gone off with Ginny to talk to some of her teammates, and neither of the two men said anything for several seconds until finally Theo sighed and took a long drink.

“You know, Draco, I remember you being more subtle.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that staring at girls from across the room is always noticeable, no matter how shadowy your corner is.”

“Oh for-”

“Actually, scratch that, it’s even more noticeable if you’re sitting in a shadowy fucking corner like some sort of-”

“Alright, alright,” he muttered, “What’s it going to take for you shut up?”

“It’s your birthday,” said Theo, shrugging, “I’ll let it go for free this time.”

“How generous of you.”

“It is, isn’t it?” said Theo brightly, “Must be all the love in the air,”

“Ugh, spare me,” he grunted, taking a small gulp of whisky and grimacing at the pleasant burn. His grumpiness was halfhearted, but he was feeling defensive.

“Look, in all seriousness, I don’t know which one you were looking at, Draco, but as far as I’m concerned they’re equally terrible ideas.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I mean, I’d hope that it wasn’t Stella,”

“Don’t be absurd,” he snorted, “Even I wouldn’t be that brazen,”

“We can but hope.”

“Theo-”

“Don’t worry, I know it wasn’t Stella. But… Ginny’s still with Potter, not to mention she’s got a fucking insane temper, so don’t even think about chasing after her, and Granger- well…” Theo trailed off and gave him a significant look.

“What? Did she turn into a hippogriff while I wasn’t looking?” he asked dryly, though inside he was embarrassingly curious about what he was about to say.

“Ginny might have a temper, but Granger…” Theo sucked on his teeth contemplatively, “She could probably murder you, make it look like an accident, then get a medal for discovering your mangled corpse.”

Draco stared.

“Fucking hell, Theo…”

“Not inaccurate though, is it?”

“What the fuck happened to the love in the air?”

“It’s still there, I’m just offering some friendly advice to my old friend whose love life has historically been- what is the word? Chaotic.”

“I still maintain that I have no idea what you’re talking about.” scoffed Draco.

“Suit yourself, but don’t expect me to save your sorry arse if it comes to it,” he said, grinning, and Draco couldn’t help but grin too even as he rolled his eyes.

“Off you go then, go be in love,” he sighed, gesturing to the rest of the party with his glass, “Leave me to my misery,”

“Jesus christ you’re dramatic,” groaned Theo, standing up, “Come and join in if you suddenly feel the need to be a human being.”

“Now who’s being dramatic?”

“Arsehole,”

“Wanker,”

They smiled at each other, and Theo turned to head back to his fiancee, and for a moment Draco almost forgot why he had come over in the first place. Then he remembered, and even though it deserved to be lovingly sipped and savoured over at least half an hour, he knocked back the last of his whisky and stood up. He needed another drink. The fact that Granger was currently standing at the bar was entirely irrelevant. Especially irrelevant was the fact that she was unaccompanied by her red-headed chaperone.

“Evening, Granger,”

To his delight she jumped slightly, and when she turned to see him her cheeks were ever so slightly pink.

“Oh, hi,” She tucked her hair behind her ear, and Draco noticed a small silver pendant around her neck in the shape of a book. How very typical.

“You look nice,” he offered, uncharacteristically at a loss for what else to say and already half-regretting coming over here.

“I- thank you,” she said quietly, her cheeks darkening in the low light of the bar. “Happy birthday,”

“Thanks,”

The bartender returned with her drinks; two brightly coloured, fruity smelling cocktails, and Draco ordered himself another whiskey, though not another expensive one, the way this night was going he’d burn through the whole family fortune.

“I-”

“Look,” she said quickly, cutting him off, “I’m- I don’t want to be rude, but Ginny is watching us, and she’s a bit like the Spanish Inquisition when she knows something’s going on,”

“Say no more,” he said, holding up a hand and wondering if he should know what the Spanish Inquisition was, “I just came for a drink, I wasn’t expecting to be interrogated by Weasley for looking at you the wrong way,”

“Yes, well, no one expects the Spanish Inquisition,” She laughed, her lip quirking upwards.

“I-What?”

“It’s- nevermind.” She picked up her drinks, seeming somehow even more amused now.

“What’s so funny, Granger?” he demanded, feeling unsettlingly as if he was being left out of a joke.

“It’s nothing, really, Malfoy,” she said, still grinning that lopsided grin that made him sure she was laughing at his expense, “I’d better get Ginny her drink,”

“Hmm,” he said, narrowing his eyes in mostly mock suspicion. Granger sighed.

“Look, I’ll explain it next time we see each other, ok?”

“I’ll hold you to that,” he grunted, folding his arms.

“I’m sure you will,” she muttered, looking highly entertained, and with that, she turned around and headed with some speed back towards the main party.

Draco watched as she disappeared into the crowds, unsure whether to feel offended by her sudden departure, or relieved that she thought they would see each other again in a friendly situation. Actually, the implication was that she would see him again somewhere they weren’t being watched by Weasley, and he couldn’t help but wonder if she planned on such a situation happening soon.

It was later, and the party had reached that strange point when some of it was winding down at the same time as the rest were just gearing up to really start the night. For his part, Draco was on the fence. Once Pansy and Blaise had turned up he had felt a lot less awkward, and they were a welcome distraction from everything, though he hadn’t failed to notice that Granger and Weasley hadn’t come within six feet of any of them the whole night. He supposed he couldn’t blame them, it was one thing to not start a fight every time they were in the same room, but it was another to actually comfortably socialise together. Once or twice though, he caught her eye from across the room and she had smiled, before quickly turning back to her conversation. Now she was talking to Stella, who appeared to be trying to convince her of something. He returned his attention to Pansy, who was talking about her most recent adventures in Europe; he wanted to say Austria, but he was only about fifty percent sure. He knew it was somewhere that spoke German, but that only narrowed it down to about five countries, so he just hummed in agreement with her latest statement and nodded reassuringly. Thankfully Pansy never had required a great deal of input from anyone else in conversation. The next time he looked up Potter had appeared, and the Weasley girl was practically on top of him, much to Granger’s visible discomfort. Potter looked a little embarrassed, but not certainly unhappy about the situation.

“Ugh, I know,” sneered Pansy besides him, following his gaze, “That’s Weasley class for you.”

Draco couldn’t help but snort at that. Pansy glared at him.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he chuckled, “I just think that’s a bit rich given that bloody fiasco at the Manor.”

“I wasn’t the alone in that fiasco,” she sniffed, “And I didn’t hear you complaining.”

“Fine, I just think neither of us can judge anyone for public displays of affection, classy or otherwise.”

Pansy narrowed her eyes at him, but eventually huffed and grinned reluctantly.

“’Affection’ is a bit strong.” She said, giving him a sideways look, and she wasn’t wrong. The two of them only came together when one or both of them were at their lowest, maybe half a dozen times since the war, and Draco had never been under the illusion that it was a good idea, but that was fine; he was something of an expert at living with regret. Pansy suddenly scowled at him. “If you’re looking for a repeat, Draco, you’ve got another thing coming.” She said sharply.

“What? That wasn’t-”

But he didn’t get a chance to state his case, because Blaise had appeared unnervingly quietly beside Pansy.

“Are you two planning on sticking around?” he asked in a bored voice, “I was thinking of heading to the Red Room,”

“Sure, yeah,” said Pansy, but Draco wasn’t listening. He had caught Granger’s eye.

She had been saying something to Potter, but her eyes kept flitting back to him. She tucked her hair behind her ear almost anxiously, but something about her posture made Draco think she was trying not to smile. Then Ginny launched herself at her, pulling her into a clumsy hug, and he saw both Potter and Granger laugh.

“Draco?”

“Huh?”

“What do you think? I know you’ve got ah- _plans_ tomorrow, but-”

“Well, don’t forget _you’ve_ got plans tomorrow too,” he muttered tersely, “I’ve no intention of suffering through Mother’s circus alone.”

“Yes, yes, you’ve made your point,” drawled Blaise.

“So are you coming?” asked Pansy.

“I- no, no I shouldn’t,” he said after a small pause, “I’d rather stay here anyway, I hate that place. It’s pretentious.”

“Pretentious?” Cackled Pansy, “Draco, you live in a castle.”

“It’s not a castle; it’s a manor, and I don’t live there anymore anyway.”

“Fine, suit yourself,” sighed Blaise, shrugging nonchalantly and draining his glass.

Pansy and Blaise started to chat, waving Theo over to tell him their plans, leaving Draco to look back to Granger. She was alone now, checking something in her bag, and Draco couldn’t help but notice that Ginny’s hug had bunched up her t-shirt, exposing a tantalising crescent moon of pale skin above the waistband of her jeans. Fuck… he wanted to peel her clothes off with his teeth. But no… no, that was an extremely unhelpful line of thought. He dragged his eyes away and back to the party at large, just in time to see the Weasley girl now hugging Stella as Potter shook Theo’s hand. Then they were disappearing down the stairs, waving goodbye to the happy couple.

He looked back to Granger at exactly the same time that she looked up. She smiled; a tiny twitch of her lips that promised trouble, and it was then that he knew that his efforts to squash this silly infatuation were futile. Maybe they had always been futile. He wasn’t drunk enough to actually think it was a good idea, but that was fine, he was just drunk enough not to care.

He drained his glass and grinned back at her.

Fuck it. It was his birthday after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big time imposter syndrome lately, but despite it I did enjoy writing this chapter, dialogue is my favourite and it's more or less been non stop introspection since the masquerade.  
> Also, I may or may not have already written a drabble in which Hermione exposes Malfoy to Monty Python.


	19. A Different Dancefloor

Hermione felt lightheaded, almost as if she was watching herself from outside her body. She had purposefully been careful not to drink too much, so that she could keep her wits about her and avoid acting like a lovestruck teenager in front of all of his friends and hers, she’d only had two cocktails, but her head was spinning from those and the simmering sense of forbidden excitement she felt every time she caught him looking at her.

The way he’d looked at her earlier, all fire and barely concealed desire. She hadn’t felt so wanted since… well, since he was looking at her from the other side of a mask, through eyes that weren’t quite his. She drew in a shaking breath. Ginny was gone, and she wasn’t being watched anymore. Not by Ginny in any case, but she still kept catching Malfoy’s eye more often than seemed statistically probable. She’d been noticing him all night, and worse, she’d been _noticing_ herself noticing. She had promised Stella that she would stick around for a bit, but now she wondered if that had been a good idea. Another time she might have enjoyed herself here tonight, but she had to escape now, before… before…

Could it really be so terrible to stay for a bit? What was the harm in one drink? A little while just to let go and act like a normal twenty something?

“Hey Hermione!” Stella came bounding up to her like a puppy as Pansy and Blaise disappeared down the staircase beside her. “I’m trying to round up people to come downstairs and dance!”

“Oh no…”

“Come on,” she said, grabbing Hermione’s elbow and starting to march her towards the staircase. Hermione was suddenly very aware that she lived behind a desk while Stella was an actual professional athlete who actually used her muscles for more than paperwork.

“I- wait, Stella,”

“It’s not just the two us, there’s others already down there, and the muggles obviously-”

“No, I-” she sighed and felt her shoulders sag as she surrendered, “I’m going to need another drink.”

“Yes!” said Stella triumphantly, still holding her elbow, but abruptly changing direction to head back towards the bar.

Once again, Hermione felt strangely disembodied as she watched the bartender pour two shots that were almost exactly the same electric blue colour as pixies. Without another word, she picked up one as Stella picked up the other, then before she could talk herself out of it, they clicked the cheap plastic glasses together and both knocked them back. It tasted like a sort of violently poisonous blueberry.

“Merde,” hissed Stella.

Hermione just nodded in agreement as she spluttered slightly. Apparently it was some kind of magical liqueur, because her throat felt a bit like she had swallowed lava, but without any pain, just the tingling, pricking sensation of heat that persisted for several seconds and all the way down into her stomach.

“That is incredibly weird…” she muttered as the sensation faded away.

“Really? I quite like it,” said Stella, “It gets the job done anyway. Now come on, let’s dance!”

This time Hermione didn’t protest, just let Stella haul her across the room, beckoning for others- whom she had evidently already convinced- to join them. As soon as her foot landed on the first step Hermione could feel the bass thumping through the floor, and by the time they had cleared the staircase it was rattling her bones. When she’d arrived a few hours ago the downstairs bar hadn’t been empty by any means, but now it was jam packed, most of the space having turned into a dancefloor which was alive with bodies moving to the pulsating beat of the music. The extra drink was doing nothing for Hermione’s nerves, but Stella had a iron grip on her hand and pulled her slowly but surely into the thick of it. The other beater from the quidditch team was there, along with the keeper and a few others she recognised from the party but didn’t know, and they smiled and welcomed the new arrivals, and it wasn’t long before Hermione could do nothing but allow herself to be swept away with the hypnotic movement of the sea of people that surrounded her. Here she was invisible, just another human being, relishing a moment of hazy simplicity away from the mundane stresses of the rest of her life.

Theo turned up after a while, and after that Stella’s dancing became rather more… physical, to a great deal of cheering and general encouragement from her friends. Hermione laughed and cheered with them, and for a moment she felt as though she was forgetting something, but it was quickly eclipsed by the sensation of unbearable thirst. Apparently there was only room for one thought in her head at present, which was actually kind of a nice change of pace. She mimed drinking to one of Stella’s friends and pointed to the bar, since Stella herself was very much occupied at the moment, and her friend gave Hermione the thumbs up. Hermione smiled and nodded, and began to fight her way through the crowds to the bar. She ordered herself a glass of water and gazed along the bar. Why did she still feel like there was something she was forgetting, just on the edge of her mind? The bartender returned with her water, she thanked him and turned back towards the dancefloor, only to find herself almost nose to nose with Malfoy, who had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Far more likely was that she had just been distracted by the loud music and flashing lights, but that didn’t stop her from startling and spilling a slosh of water over her feet.

“Jesus- where the hell did you come from?”

“Didn’t mean to startle you, Granger,” he said, leaning towards her to be heard over the music.

“Are um- are you having a good night?” she managed, suddenly a bit too distracted by his proximity.

“Sure, yeah,” he said with a shrug, but the expression on his face didn’t fit with his casual response. He was looking at her with such intensity that he looked almost ethereal, his pale eyes glinting in the lights.

She nodded and fiddled with her hair. He was standing a little too close, and her brain was bouncing wildly between panic and exhilaration. She wasn’t used to being held hostage by her emotions- by her body like this, it was extremely irritating, but she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t enjoying it. She took a sip of water and tried to surreptitiously look at him under her eyelashes. He caught her immediately though, and no matter how much she tried she couldn’t quite drag her eyes from the infectious little smile that tugged at the corner of his lip. Hermione blinked, and just like that, it was as if two images were coming together in front of her very eyes, and she _knew_.

She knew that for better or worse, the man in front of her was the same one she’d met in the ballroom at the masquerade.

“Would you like to dance?” she asked abruptly, before any rational reasons not to caught up with her.

He cocked an eyebrow, and the next few seconds felt like a decade, but then slowly, slowly his lip curled and he leant down to her so she could feel the warmth of his breath on her neck.

“I thought you’d never ask,” he murmured.

Hermione felt her pulse soar, a surge of impossible, irrepressible excitement thrumming in her chest. Then he grabbed her hand, barely giving her enough time to set her water back down on the bar before he pulled her back towards the dancefloor. Instead of heading back into the middle where their friends were though, they skirted around the dancers until they were on the opposite side of the room where they were unlikely to run into anyone but muggles.

A thousand questionable decisions that had led up to this moment seemed to press down upon her as she followed him into the mass of swaying bodies, intently focused on the pressure of his fingers around her hand. Her thoughts seemed far away, and when they finally came to a stop she found herself strangely hesitant to meet his eyes. Her hips moved almost unconsciously, stirred by the thumping bass and the inexorable movement of the people around her. She felt him move a hair’s breadth closer, and her hips brushed his outstretched hand as she moved. Finally, she looked up and saw a smile in his eyes, and her inhibitions evaporated.

She rocked her hips again, trying to concentrate on the sound of the music, and this time he closed the distance between them, one hand on her hip and the other pushing her hair over her shoulder, his fingers ghosting over the skin of her neck. She shivered slightly, and felt him start to move with her, her pulse vibrating with the beat, or maybe it was just the forbidden excitement of doing everything she knew she shouldn’t. Seconds or minutes passed, and now they were flush against one another, bodies brushing clumsily together as they swayed. She squashed down a momentary surge of self-consciousness and wound her arms around his neck, using her new leverage to look up into his eyes again. He held her gaze for a moment before he leant closer so she could feel his lips brush the shell of her ear.

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, Granger; I have no idea where you got the idea that you’re a bad dancer.”

She let out a short, breathy laugh, but couldn’t quite come up with a reply, so instead she toyed with the hair at the nape of his neck and pressed herself closer. His hand shifted slightly with her movement, sliding her t-shirt up about an inch. It was such a small movement it might almost have been accidental, but he ran his thumb along the newly exposed skin, slipping mere millimetres underneath the fabric of her top, and she knew from his sharp intake of breath that it was exactly what he had intended. She chanced a look up at him, expecting a self-satisfied smirk, but found instead that he was watching her move with a sort of befuddled awe, as if he was having trouble believing what he was seeing. Truth be told she thought that in the cold light of day it might seem pretty incomprehensible to her too, but right now all she felt was an unfamiliar, but not unpleasant exhilaration, and a consuming desire to be closer to him, no matter how ill advised it was.

She let go of his neck and dragged her hands over his shoulders and down his chest, a little slower than was strictly necessary so she could relish the warm, solid feeling him. He shuddered and tightened his grip on her hips, sending a little thrill down her spine. Fuck, how had she never noticed how infuriatingly attractive he was? Their movements were slowing now, becoming more indulgent and exaggerated as they both unconsciously chased more and more physical contact. He skimmed his hands over her lower back, tracing the bottom of her ribcage and trailing down to rest low on her hips, almost but not quite on her arse. With a small shock she realised she wanted his hands on her, all over her, and more than that, she realised that she _could_ have that. Hermione blinked, and then she made a decision.

She kept swaying her hips, pressing closer, scandalously close now, brazenly close, until she suddenly turned around, grabbing his hands and holding them on her hips as she pressed her back to his front. She felt him chuckle against her back, freeing one hand to reach up and sweep her hair over her shoulder again, exposing her neck and making her shiver. They started to move again, once again keeping up with the pulsating beat and the undulating rhythm of the other dancers around them. His mouth was on her neck again, lips moving against her sensitive skin under the guise of being heard over the music, his breath thunderously loud as his teeth teased at her earlobe. If he was saying any actual words, she couldn’t make them out, but she had a feeling that for once in their life they really did understand each other perfectly. She reached behind her to cup his jaw and hold him to her as he pressed his now rather noticeable erection into her arse. She let out a little moan, but it must have been louder than she thought, because he froze behind her, and she twisted around, hoping she hadn’t somehow pushed it too far.

“Are you-”

“Come home with me.” He said, his voice raw and his jaw set in determination. Time stopped, and suddenly all she could hear was her pulse thundering in her ears.

“What?” she whispered.

“You heard me,”

“I-I don’t-”

He scoffed and looked away, his mouth twisting into an all too familiar sneer, and Hermione was sure she could see the same old walls rising behind his eyes.

“Don’t say it, Granger, just- don’t-”

“I have to say goodbye to Stella.”

“I don’t know- what?”

“Are you even listening to me?” she said, staring up at him with her hands on her hips in her best impression of her usual, bossy self. “I said; I have to say goodbye to Stella. I can’t just disappear, people will worry.”

They looked at each other for several seconds, an oasis of stillness in the mass of people. Then his contemplative expression snapped back to his usual lazily amused smirk as if a switch had been flipped. God, he was annoying.

“God, you’re annoying,” she said, and he smiled a little wider.

“Meet you outside in five minutes?”

“Yep,”

Then they nodded and turned away from each other, starting to fight their way through the crowds in opposite directions. Evidently he didn’t care all that much about people worrying if he disappeared, because Theo was still with Stella. She said her goodbyes in a daze, distracted by the lust pounding through her veins and uneasy yet thrilling knowledge of exactly who it was directed at. As she made her way back to the exit, she wondered if he would even be there. He’d be perfectly within his rights to change his mind after all, and really it would be no skin off her nose if he did, she’d just look around for a minute or two and then head home, it would be fine. This was fine.

She opened the door, stepping aside briefly to let a few people past her. There was a group of men about her age around the door smoking and laughing with the bouncer, a couple having a hushed but extremely noticeable argument, and just past them, leaning up against the wall and looking as if he owned the place was Draco Malfoy.

She was expecting his catlike grin, but she hadn’t expected the way his whole face lifted when he saw her, and she almost faltered for a second, but the moment passed. The sleeves of his fitted shirt were rolled up just below his elbows, and he had a thick grey coat which looked entirely inappropriate for the warm weather slung over one arm. She came to a stop in front of him, and neither of them said anything for a few seconds.

“I was beginning to think you were standing me up,” he said quietly, his lip curling.

“I-um- well, Stella’s a hugger.”

“That she is.”

More silence. Hermione shifted from one foot to the other and tried to resist the urge to fiddle with her hair nervously. Now she was out of the hazy, stifling atmosphere of the club, it was suddenly all too easy to hear her thoughts, half of which were blaring warning bells at what a terrible idea this was, while the other half was stuck on wishing she could run her hand through his hair. It was the strangest feeling, almost as if she was looking at two people at once, her childhood bully still just about visible under the tall, confident man with artfully tousled hair and a smile in his eyes that stood before her now.

“It’s a bit weird, isn’t it?” he said, as if reading her mind.

“Understatement,” she said with a small smile.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

“How about this; I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told anyone,” he said quietly, taking a step closer.

“What?” she asked breathlessly, suddenly very aware that they were standing in full view of the world in the middle of a muggle street, but too entranced by curiosity and the intensity of his gaze to move. He smiled.

“I might regret this- I have a feeling you’re going to make me regret it, Granger,”

“Spit it out, Malfoy,” she snapped, but she knew her flushed cheeks and breathy voice betrayed her.

“But I don’t care,” he purred, continuing as if she hadn’t spoken, leaning down another inch towards her to speak under his breath, “In fifth year, I went through a bit of a phase -that’s what I told myself, anyway- but every time I came I would think of you, no matter how much I tried not to, tried to picture someone else, no matter how much I thought I hated you-”

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat, and for a moment her mind ran through fifth year, all the stress and angst and… and all that time he had been…

“-This went on for months, Granger, _months_. Every time I- and I was fifteen, so I’m sure you can imagine that we’re not talking about just once or twice, here-”

“You’re a bit drunk, aren’t you?” she said, interrupting his rambling. His voice had been a purr when he’d started, but evidently somewhere along the way he had stopped concentrating on seducing her and focused on just getting his point across. It- well, it was actually rather sweet, which wasn’t an adjective she’d ever thought would apply to him.

“A bit, yes.” He conceded, looking mildly put out.

Hermione giggled, and she knew if she was sober she would be mortified, but as it was she just smiled and looked up at him, trying to reconcile this new information with the man she thought she knew.

“Ok, I’m going to need you to stop biting your lip, Granger, because it fucking _does_ things to me, and despite my best efforts, we are still in public.”

“We are, aren’t we?”

“Despite my best efforts, yes.” His voice was smooth again, with just the smallest undertone of tightness, and Hermione felt her pulse flutter. Oh, she was in trouble.

“You- you don’t still live at the manor, right?”

“Not for years.”

His hand had floated to her waist, and his warmth was sinking into her skin. The last of her resistance melted away.

“Let’s go.”

Fuck it. She wasn’t in trouble. She was Hermione Granger; she _was_ trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy, shit is heating up, as in, we're in slamming my laptop shut whenever my SO comes into the room territory, well, the next chapter is anyway ; )


	20. A Terrible Idea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SMUT  
> OH MY GOD  
> ALL THE SMUT  
> NSFW

“This- this is a terrible idea,” gasped Hermione as Draco kissed her neck.

“I know,” he growled, grabbing her arse with one hand and using the other to steady himself against the wall, “But I don’t care. Do you?”

Hermione let out a high-pitched little gasp as he nipped at her jaw, which he seemed to take as an acceptable answer to his question, and he chuckled darkly, his breath hot against her skin.

They had got as far as the apparition point, then- well, honestly she couldn’t remember how exactly it had happened, but the point was that now she was trapped between a brick wall and the warm, hard weight of his body pressing against her as he continued to kiss, lick and bite down her neck as she made small, sinful noises of encouragement. At least this alleyway had silencing and muggle repelling charms on it, but they couldn’t stay here forever.

“Malfoy,”

“Shh, I’m busy…” he murmured, squeezing her arse and running his tongue over the stretch of collarbone that was exposed by her t-shirt.

“Shut up- Malfoy!” she grabbed his hair and pulled him gently (well, she had intended it to be gentle, anyway) off her. “We can’t stay here-”

“Fine, fine.”

He grabbed her hips, holding her firmly, and before she could even think of objecting she felt the queasy tug of apparition behind her navel.

“Ah shit…” he muttered when their feet hit the ground, “I probably shouldn’t have apparated… You’re not splinched or anything are you?”

“No- not that I know of,” she said vaguely, looking down at her apparently intact body.

“Good, that’s- huh.”

“What?”

“Something just occurred to me.”

“Oh? Do tell,” she said dryly, feeling strangely self-conscious now that she was standing in his house. The lights were off, and she couldn’t see much of it, but somehow she could feel that she was in _his_ space. He was still standing very close, and his presence seemed to overwhelm her senses. He smelt like sandalwood, and she was suddenly reminded of that first night, sly smiles and mischievous eyes behind masks, unfettered by the burden of their identities.

“It’s just occurred to me that I’ve never actually kissed you.” He said, frowning slightly and cocking his head, as if he was trying to make sense of something.

Hermione opened her mouth, then shut it again, her heart in her throat. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and looked away for a moment.

“What about-?”

“That was different. I didn’t- I mean, you weren’t- fuck. You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I- I know what you mean,” she whispered, flicking her eyes up to meet his.

They had been bouncing between reckless lust and tentative, careful self-consciousness all night, and Hermione wasn’t sure her heart could take it for much longer. She could deal with him being a cocky arsehole who she was inexplicably insanely attracted to, or him being a contemplative, meticulous man who wanted to savour every moment, but she couldn’t deal with both at the same time. And that was to say nothing of his confession earlier. The idea that Draco Malfoy had been fantasising about her while they were at Hogwarts, while he had been insulting her very existence with every other breath; it was breaking her brain. She realised she hadn’t said anything for several seconds, and he was bloody _watching_ her again, one eyebrow raised as if she was putting on a highly entertaining show for him.

“What?” she demanded, scowling.

“Sickle for your thoughts, Granger?”

His tone was cool, calm, so why did she still feel like prey? As if he was just waiting for an opening so he could pounce. And- oh fuck- why the hell did she _want_ him to pounce? No, she wasn’t the prey here, she refused to be.

“Just wondering if you were telling the truth earlier, Malfoy,” she said sweetly, “Because the idea that you spent fifth year wanking over me is rather deliciously ironic.”

“Ugh, I knew you would make me regret telling you,” he sighed exasperatedly. “First of all, I wasn’t wanking over you, you just sort of popped into my head when I- and it wasn’t the whole year, just a few months. I blame hormones.”

“Yeah?” she scoffed, trying to look calmer than she felt, “And what about now?”

He let out a shuddering breath, and suddenly he was almost on top of her, breathing her air, swamping her senses.

“Now I know better,” he husked, his lips so close to hers that she could almost _feel_ them.

Hermione couldn’t help it, she let out a tiny, desperate whimper, and she was distantly flabbergasted that Malfoy of all people had pulled that noise from her with just words. He took a step closer so that their bodies were pressed together, but still he didn’t kiss her, even as she felt his heart pounding mere inches from her own. She got the feeling he was trying hard to control himself, which Hermione found somewhat ironic since if either of them had any self-control they would never have got here in the first place.

“Do you want me to kiss you, Granger?” he murmured, his breath whispering over her parted lips.

She sighed shakily. Well, if you want something done properly…

She reached up with both hands and pulled his face down to hers, pouring every last drop of lust, and frustration, and affection, and anger into the kiss- their second first kiss.

He moaned, raw and a good bit louder than she had expected, and kissed her back. She clung to him, pulling him closer and moving one hand from his jaw to tangle in his hair. It was as soft as she remembered, and she spent a few indulgent moments running her fingers from his temples all the way down to the nape of his neck. Apparently he enjoyed it too, because he shuddered as she allowed her fingernails to drag over his scalp, or maybe he was shuddering because he had finally slipped his tongue past her unresisting lips to twine against hers. She suddenly remembered the way he had kissed her at the masquerade, the way he had been been all rough, raw passion one minute, and careful control the next, and she wondered if he was usually like this, always warring with himself, or if he was just trying to make sure she didn’t smack him. Even that would be something of a departure though; the Malfoy she’d known before all of this wouldn’t have given a damn if he pissed her off - but then, the Malfoy she’d known probably wouldn’t have taken her back to his house to snog her within an inch of her life, either.

He thrust his hand into her hair, groaning as he flexed his fingers in her curls. At some point his coat had fallen to the floor with her bag, and already he was sliding his other hand beneath her top so he could touch her, his palm resting on the small of her back and his thumb stroking up and down her spine, so she followed his lead and tentatively rested her hand on his hip, toying with the soft cotton of his shirt for a few seconds before she finally made her mind up and pulled it from his waistband. The action seemed to startle him slightly, and he broke the kiss, panting as he pulled back to look at her.

“I- sorry, I didn’t-” she began, quickly withdrawing her hand.

“No, don’t-”

“I didn’t mean to-”

“Shut up, Granger,” he growled.

Against all odds, she shut up. The rough, wrecked tone of his voice had somehow cut right through her rationality and straight to her animal brain. He let out a shaky breath, his hand in her hair tightening slightly and releasing, as if he was still deciding what he wanted to do, and Hermione could do nothing but wait with bated breath. What was he _doing_ to her?

“I don’t know what bullshit you were about to say about overstepping or not wanting to push,” he said, the rumble of his voice seeming to vibrate through her whole body, “But let me clear it up for you so we can avoid repeating this, alright?”

Hermione nodded, mildly shocked he had managed to so effectively pin down what she was getting at with her stammering.

“Good. Now, I know this is unchartered territory and it’s- it’s really fucking surreal, but I assure you, the only reason I might seem, uh, hesitant, is that I’m eternally shocked to my very fucking core that Hermione fucking Granger is trying to feel me up, ok?”

She nodded again, smiling slightly. She knew the feeling.

“Ok,” he said, a touch smoother than before, “It’s a very pleasant surprise, don’t get me wrong…” he trailed off as he leant down to nip at her neck again, the hint of stubble rasping over her sensitive skin and making her shiver. She smiled, but her mind flew back to the moment he had realised who she was, the biting, jarring horror in his voice as his fantasy fell around his ears.

“We- You didn’t think so last time,” she said, a fragment of self-consciousness slipping out despite everything. He froze for a moment, and pulled back again.

“Always got a comeback, haven’t you, Granger?” he said softly, and she couldn’t quite tell if he was amused or unsettled. “Suffice to say I’ve had time to mull it over. Is that enough of an answer for you?”

“Not really, no…” she muttered, but she could see him smirking now, even in the low light.

“Merlin, no wonder you needed the mask…” he sighed, releasing her waist to pinch the bridge of his nose in faux exasperation, “Alright, Granger, I will put it in painfully clear terms for you, ok?”

Hermione glared at him, but true to form, this only appeared to amuse him more.

“Don’t be an arsehole, Malfoy,”

“Ok, ok,” he chuckled, raising an eyebrow at her and holding his hands up in surrender, “Just-look.” He cleared his throat pompously and stood up straight as if he was giving a statement in court. “I, Draco Malfoy, would very much like to engage in a wide variety of sexual acts with you, Hermione Granger, and unless you want to say otherwise or, you know, punch me in the face, I’m very much convinced that you feel the same.”

Well. When he put it like that…

“I- ok,” she murmured, as the annoyance that had briefly eclipsed the pulsating haze of lust began to fade. She tried very hard not to smile.

“Ok?”

“Yeah, message received,” she hummed, biting her lip to stop herself moaning when he twitched against her, his erection pushing against her core.

“Good,” he said lightly, “I’d heard you were a smart one,”

“Oh shut up,”

“You shut up, do you have any idea how much brain power it took to string that whole giant great sentence together? I’ve barely got any blood left in the top half of my body as it is…”

She opened her mouth to give him a snarky reply, but he silenced her with a sudden, searing kiss that banished every thought in her mind, and she hummed in satisfaction against his lips, throwing her arms around his neck. He kissed her like he was trying to devour her, like he was trying to absorb her very life force, and in that moment Hermione knew without a shadow of a doubt that this was happening. She was lost.

She reached down and yanked the rest of his shirt from his waistband, finally slipping underneath to run her hand over his back, where she could feel his muscles moving as he pulled her closer, letting out a muffled groan. It wasn’t enough though, she could only just reach his shoulder blades, and the damn shirt was still in the way of her touching his chest, so she pushed back from him, her hands flying to his buttons at the same time as slipped his fingers just under the waistband of her jeans. Her fingers were clumsy in her haste, but eventually she undid the last button and shoved his shirt open, forgetting that she had wanted to touch him and just pressing her whole body to his. He moaned in response and grabbed her arse with both hands, taking a shaky step forwards and starting to walk her backwards. She let him, kissing him the whole time, until her back bumped up against a wall and he broke the kiss to wrench her t-shirt up. With a small, breathless giggle, she raised her arms up obligingly and he tore it off, throwing the offending garment away into the darkness and getting right back to the matter at hand.

He kissed her again, hard and fierce, then left her lips to trail wet kisses and nibbles down her neck, along her clavicle and over her cleavage. Hermione was panting now, at some point he had managed to get the button on her jeans undone and discarded his own shirt, and she imagined looking at herself from outside her body, pinned against the wall and trembling as he plucked at the edge of her bra with his teeth. When she’d come out tonight she had been so determined that nothing was going to happen between them that she’d worn intentionally basic underwear, a plain black bra and knickers, as if she’d be less tempted if she knew she hadn’t made an effort. What bollocks. She should have known better really, but she lost her train of thought when he stroked up her spine towards the clasp. Before she even thought about it, she was arching her back to give him better access, the motion also serving to grind her hips into him and making both of them groan loudly. He undid her bra with a practised flick of his wrist and didn’t even wait to pull it off her shoulders, just pushed it up immediately, caressing her breasts with surprising gentleness given the clumsy desperation of earlier. His touch was feather light, ghosting over her heated skin as if mapping the terrain for future reference, and she let out an embarrassingly needy whine when his fingertip grazed her nipple. He let out an unbearably self-satisfied chuckle and pulled away.

“I am going to make you scream my name, Granger,” he hissed in her ear, and in one fluid movement he pulled her bra off and dropped it to the floor, and reached behind her with his other hand to open a door next to them.

“Is that right?” she gasped as he began to walk her backwards through the door.

“That’s right,” he replied, his tone matter-of-fact even as he lightly rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. She almost stumbled then, since he was still walking her back, but she rallied, still determined to give as good as she got. She refused to allow him the upper hand, it went against everything she was and everything she believed, so she stood her ground and reached down between them to palm his crotch, giving him a gentle squeeze through his trousers to even the score. He groaned, and she grinned to herself.

“Who’s to say you’re not going to be screaming my name?” she whispered, trying her best to project smug confidence, though in all honesty she was fast becoming utterly overwrought.

She knew she was dangerously close to becoming an incoherent mess, especially since he had now begun to thrust into her hand, and she realised that beyond a lot of dry humping, she’d never actually _felt_ him. Well, she could feel him now, and it was serving as a sobering reminder of exactly who she was pressed up against, and exactly how much she wanted him. She blinked and tried very hard not to allow her thoughts to run away from her. He had apparently decided not to dignify her last question with an answer and just stare down at her, his eyes almost glowing silver in the darkened room, daring her to back down. As if she was going to back down.

She squeezed him again, and to her delight she felt his cock twitch and heard his breath catch in his throat, then the spell was broken, and they were tearing at each other’s remaining clothes like they were possessed. She fumbled with his belt as he leaned down to take a nipple in his mouth, flicking his tongue over it and making her cry out. He let out a strangled sort of groan and released her with a small, wet noise. Fuck, even the tiny, barely noticeable noises were setting her on fire. His belt was jangling around his waist now, his trousers wide open as he started to push her jeans down over her hips. She wriggled slightly, unreasonably distracted by his very visible, very tented boxers, but her movement didn’t do much good, her jeans were too tight and they weren’t coming off without a fight. After a moment he let out a grunt of frustration, and hauled her up by the backs of her thighs.

Hermione squealed in surprise, but he muffled it with another searing kiss, his momentum pushing her back down, and they fell together onto a bed that she hadn’t even realised was there. They stayed that way for a moment, just kissing and relishing the sensation of his bare chest pressed against hers, but it wasn’t long before the urgency returned, and he was sitting back on his heels to strip her jeans away from her legs. She kicked off her boots, trying not to knee him in any sensitive places as she did so, but then he was back, kissing every thought out of her head. They hadn’t had the time before, crowded together in that dark storeroom with barely enough space to breathe, let alone undress each other, but now it felt so different, so much more… vibrant. His hand skimmed down her side, pausing to unashamedly grope her ass before her grabbed her thigh and pulled it up as he moaned into her mouth. Then he took her lower lip between his teeth, sucking hard and pulling it slowly as his eyes bore into hers before he began to kiss down her neck, over her cleavage, but he wasn’t stopping this time. His hands were covering her breasts, but she could feel him shuffling back, lips trailing down her belly, then without warning he grabbed her thighs and yanked her down so that her legs dangled off the edge of the bed, her bare toes just brushing the carpet.

“What are you- Oh…”

He placed a slow, open mouthed kiss on the inside of her knee, another just above it, and Hermione let out another whimper, resiting the urge to bury her hand in his hair. Another kiss, this time halfway up her thigh as he gently eased her legs apart, another one mere inches from the edge of her underwear, and now she was panting, propped up on her elbows and unable to tear her eyes away, enthralled by the sight of him sitting between her legs like that.

His fingers dipped into the waistband of her knickers and his eyes finally flicked up to meet hers. His lip curled.

“I’ve wanted to do this since the masquerade,” he whispered.

Hermione didn’t trust herself to speak, but when he leant down to press his tongue to her through her knickers, she keened, her voice thin and high pitched in her surprise. He moaned against her, the vibrations shivering through her whole body, then he kept going, licking and sucking through the cotton until her hand was clenched in his hair and her hips were undulating off the bed with every move he made. When he finally pulled her knickers down over her thighs she could have cried with relief, but he didn’t let her catch her breath, his hands holding her legs open as he flicked her clit with his tongue.

“ _Fuck_ …”

He just chuckled against her, the buzz of his voice and the warm puff of breath making her shudder, but then he began to lap at her, and her brain simply short-circuited. Her moans were getting louder, her knuckles white as her fist clenched around the blanket, but she didn’t care, because the sublime tension was growing, the pleasure overtaking her every nerve. She gasped, slamming her hand over her mouth automatically, but to her muted horror he stopped, climbing onto the bed next to her and wiping his face with the back of his hand. He pulled her hand away from her face, his other hand caressing her folds impossibly lightly, dipping inside for the barest fraction of a second before he smiled smugly, and just like that, Hermione’s patience snapped.

She shoved his trousers over his hips with one hand and grabbed his cock with the other, and he groaned in response, claiming her lips in a bruising, desperate kiss as they both scrabbled to remove his trousers and boxers. Then his fingers were at her clit again as he dragged her up the bed, climbing onto her and shoving her legs apart with his knee.

Fuck… was she really doing this? Was she really about to fuck Draco Malfoy?

“Fucking hell, Hermione,” he growled, “If I don’t fuck you soon I think I’ll loose my mind…”

Well, that made two of them.

Yup. She was really doing this.

“Draco,” she moaned, canting her hips so the tip of his cock brushed tantalisingly against her centre.

That was enough for him, she saw the shudder run through his body when she’d said his name, and the thought that he actually wanted her that badly set her on fire. He positioned himself at her entrance, looking down at her with an almost inscrutable expression on his face. She shifted restlessly, brushing against him again and making him shudder, and she reached up to grab his jaw, pulling his face to hers and angling her hips again. He moaned into her mouth and finally, finally pushed inside, and Hermione almost came then, overwhelmed by the onslaught of sensation.

Time fell away, and there was nothing but the rhythmic motion of their bodies, the slow spiral of pleasure within her. He seemed to match every one of her soft, frantic noises, moaning when she whimpered and growling throatily when she gasped, but when he started to talk she was lost.

“You feel fucking incredible, you know that?”

“Oh god…”

“Fuck, Hermione…”

“Oh…”

“I wanted to fuck you the moment I saw you tonight,”

She just hummed breathlessly in response.

“Wanted to- to just-”

It wasn’t even his words, it was his voice, the raw, gravelly tone of it, growling in her ear as he fucked her. Firm and confident, but at the same time rough and desperate, as if the only thing he was sure of in the entire world was how much he wanted to be doing exactly what they were doing right now. She didn’t know exactly what he said next, because the orgasm that slammed into her took her by complete surprise, and she screamed, burying her head in his neck and biting down without thinking. She heard his hiss of pain as if it was very far away, but he moved faster, stubble scraping on her temple, his breath frantic in her ear and his hand clenching in her hair.

“Oh- oh god, don’t stop-” she gasped, and he groaned loudly.

“Fuck- you’re- you-”

“Oh-”

His roar was muffled by her hair, his hand pulling her head back as he found his release, and Hermione could do nothing but let out small, breathy gasps as the waves of pleasure began to lessen.

Her hand was clawed on his shoulder, his still buried in her hair. She could feel his heart thumping in his chest, pressed up against her own as they slowly came back to reality. With a small shudder, a groan and a small laugh, he pulled out and fell back besides her. She opened her eyes.

“Fuck.” He said.

“That was-”

“Yeah.”

“Like, _fuck_ ,”

“I know.”

Neither of them said anything for a moment, their chests heaving as they both stared unseeing up at the canopy of the bed.

“Hey, Granger?”

“Yeah, Malfoy?”

He sighed contentedly, and she couldn’t help but smile to herself.

“That was a fucking fantastic terrible idea.”

She laughed, her exhausted body protesting the exertion.

“Yeah, yeah it was.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I stayed up late to finish this, because I am doing NaNoWriMo and I didn't want to leave you guys hanging for a whole month where I left it last chapter. Hopefully it's not riddled with typos and awkward euphemisms... 
> 
> So the good news is; yay, smut, but the bad news is; i'll see you lot in a month.  
> Happy Halloween!


	21. Pillow Talk

Hermione drifted into consciousness as if she was wading through treacle. Her head was pounding and her mouth felt like sandpaper. Urgh, she hadn’t even drunk that much last night, she must be getting old. It wasn’t light yet, and for a moment she wondered if her headache might just be due to not getting enough sleep. She glanced at her clock on the bedside table, and suddenly a torrent of realisations washed over her.

Her clock wasn’t there because this wasn’t her room. She was in Malfoy’s bed, and the reason she was here was that she had fallen asleep after spending the evening having outstanding sex with him. Further evidence to this fact was supplied when she became aware of his presence besides her, his breathing deep and even, the gentle rhythm of it and his warm weight next to her strangely soothing.

She smiled to herself. What a terrible, fantastic, terrible idea. God though, if nothing else, she could say with some certainty that Draco Malfoy was _very_ good at sex. Carefully she shifted from her back onto her side to look at him, to remind herself what she had done. He was still naked, at least she assumed as much because she was too, and although most of his body was covered by the blanket she could make out the top of his chest, the sharp line of his jaw starkly pale against his dark sheets.

He looked so peaceful it was almost jarring, and for a second Hermione had the strangest urge to sweep his hair over his forehead. Oh, this was weird… this was so weird. She tried to contrast her feelings the day after the masquerade with how she felt now. Then she had felt a bittersweet sort of calm, not quite regret, but palpable disappointment at the way things had ended, but now…

“I can feel you watching me, Granger,” he grunted into his pillow without opening his eyes, scaring her half to death.

“Oh, I- sorry,” she managed lamely.

“’S fine,” he murmured sleepily, rubbing his eyes and propping himself up on one elbow. “What’s up?”

“What- what’s up?”

“Yeah,” he said, smothering a yawn, “I mean, no human should be awake at this hour, so I have to assume something’s up.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” she said quietly, “I just woke up, and-”

“So why were you staring at me?”

His voice was still rough with sleep, but he sounded just a touch more alert now, and Hermione found that she didn’t have an answer for him. She shifted somewhat uncomfortably further down the bed, hiding a bit more of her naked body under the covers, but this motion had the unfortunate side effect of causing her hip to brush against him and- yep, he was definitely still naked. She froze, uncertain whether to stay perfectly still and hope for the best or try and shuffle further away from him and risk creating… friction. Thankfully, she didn’t need to make a decision, because he yawned hugely and rolled onto his other side for a moment, groaning with the effort, fiddled with something on the bedside table and rolled back, giving her plenty of time to shuffle an inch or two towards the edge of the bed, still clutching at the covers.

“Oh for- it’s not even five yet, Granger. Just- just go back to sleep.”

“How can you be so- so _blase_ right now?” she whispered.

“Not the first time I’ve woken up next to someone I wasn’t expecting.” He muttered, punching his pillow into a more agreeable shape. “Never quite as unexpected as this, but still. Go back to sleep, Granger, being awake is awful.”

“You- you really want me to go back to sleep? You don’t- shouldn’t I just-”

“Do you really want to drag your arse out of bed right now?” he sighed tersely, “What, you’re worried about it being weird if you stay? Hate to break it to you, but just a few short hours ago you were grinding that fantastic arse up against me in a muggle club, and then I admitted to wanking over you, so I think that awkward ship has sailed.”

“Oh god, I had forgotten about the dancing- oh god, and the wanking…”

“Just- just shut up, ok? Go back to sleep.”

“But-”

“C’mere.”

Before she could object he had closed the distance between them and slid his arm around her waist, pulling her onto her side so that their hips slotted together, holding her close. It was a such an intimate position that Hermione found herself speechless, her brain still slow with sleep, but he was so warm, and she had to admit that she didn’t want to get up right now. She certainly didn’t want to search around his house in the dark for her clothes, so she just sighed, and allowed herself to soften a little in his arms.

“A few more hours of sleep won’t change anything,” he murmured, his breath stirring the hair on the back of her neck.

“Ok,” she whispered, trying not to think about how good this felt.

He just hummed approvingly in response, and she could already feel his breathing slowing. After a few minutes he chuckled sleepily against her hair and shifted his hips slightly.

“Did I mention you have a fantastic arse?” he whispered.

“Once or twice,” she replied, glad he couldn’t see the wide smile on her face. “I thought you wanted to sleep.”

“I do.” He murmured, biting back another yawn, “Just wanted to let you know.”

“Oh.”

He chuckled again but didn’t say anything else, just sighed and pulled her a little tighter. God help her, she liked it.

When she woke again there was a sliver of cold sunlight peeking through the curtains. Thankfully the worst of the hangover had apparently passed, and apart from a slight headache she felt pretty normal. Well, as normal as she could possibly feel after having spent the night with Draco Malfoy. She felt a curious sense of vertigo for a moment as the reality of it sunk in. No excuses this time; she had known full well who he was, and she hadn’t drunk nearly enough to blame it on the alcohol. She smiled to herself as she remembered the events of last night, but her smile faded all too quickly. The events of the masquerade was the sort of raunchy story she might have told Ginny after one too many glasses of wine a decade from now; an entertaining, self-contained escapade, but this just… wasn’t. She’d known what she was doing the whole time, and she’d wanted to do it, and worse, now she was sober she actually kind of wanted to do it again, and that made things _complicated_.

For one thing, although he had been rather refreshingly candid last night about how much he wanted her, she had no reason to believe that his enthusiasm would carry through to today. In her experience, things said when sex was imminent should generally be taken with a pinch of salt. Still, he hadn’t tried to kick her out, quite the contrary in fact; it was only by his insistence that she was still here, still curled up to his naked body as if they weren’t almost lifelong enemies, as if it wasn’t complicated at all.

Should she just sneak away like a thief in the night? Try to avoid yet another awkward conversation? Probably impossible at this point. As he’d said a few hours ago; that awkward ship had sailed. But what was the alternative? She was sure that the answer wasn’t to just sit and cuddle as if this was the beginning of something, no matter how comfortable it was. She told herself that was just because bed was always too nice to leave when you’d had a long sleep, but there was a deep, almost primal contentment that came from being held like this, skin to skin, a closeness separate from reason, from reality. It couldn’t last though, and even in her current sleepy state she knew it.

She sighed to herself and stared up at the canopy of the bed. It looked like silk, with a pattern of little golden vines webbing across it. It _looked_ like something out of a period drama, some relic of a forgotten age, to be viewed from behind a velvet rope. Stupid, filthy rich Malfoy, with his stupid, perfect hair and- she stopped herself. That train of thought wasn’t helping. As if she had awoken him with her very thoughts, he stirred besides her, tightening his arm around her waist and burying his face in her hair.

“I can’t put my finger on what your hair smells like…” he murmured drowsily.

Whatever she had expected him to say, it wasn’t that. She smiled a confused little smile and swallowed an incredulous laugh as she tried to remember what shampoo she had used.

“I um, I think it’s coconut?” she replied after a small pause.

“Ugh, _thank you_ ,” he sighed, “That was driving me crazy.”

She turned over onto her back and looked at him. He looked back at her; this person, this man that she both knew and didn’t know, and the expression on his face was neutral, almost questioning, as if he had just posited an arithmancy problem to her and was patiently awaiting her solution.

“What?” she asked with a small smile.

“Just trying to figure out what just happened… what to do next…”

She let out a short huff of laughter.

“You and me both,” she muttered.

“We’ve made quite a mess, haven’t we?”

“Yes, yes we have,” she said, a wild, irrepressible giddiness surging through her, and then before she knew it she was laughing, hand over her eyes as her shoulders shook with mirth.

When she chanced a sideways look at him she saw that he was laughing too, though not as hard as she was. She caught her breath and grinned.

“Hey, Malfoy,”

“What?”

“Happy birthday,”

He let out a snort of laughter and fell back onto his back beside her, chuckling to himself. Neither of them said anything for a while, just lay there next to each other staring up at the canopy as their laughter subsided and once again, reality began to sink in.

“Hey Granger?” he murmured, breaking the silence.

“Yeah?”

“You want- do you want some tea?”

“Ugh, more than life itself.” She sighed, watching his face curiously. For some reason she got the feeling that he had been going to say something else, but he just nodded and yawned hugely, sitting up in bed before she had a chance to prepare herself. As it was, she was suddenly confronted by his whole naked torso and most of his leg, the blanket casually slung over his lap. Good god, that was an enormous love-bite on his neck, she could see the little divots of each tooth around the darkening bruise… had she really done that? Had she really just sunk her teeth into him like some sort of- of _wild-woman_? She tried not to stare as he stretched his neck and rolled his shoulders, but the shit-eating grin he gave her when their eyes met assured her that her efforts had been in vain. She tried to subtly pull the blanket further over herself, averting her eyes when he finally stood up until she heard the telltale rustle of fabric that suggested he had finally covered himself.

“Never pegged you as the bashful type, Granger,” he said, leaning against the doorframe in a long dressing gown that looked like it was made from black silk. “You’re holding onto that blanket like your life depends on it.”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” she muttered. That dressing gown should be a crime. No one should have been able to pull something like that off, especially not loosely hanging off him the way it was. On anyone else he would have looked as if he was dressing up as Hugh Hefner, but somehow with his aristocratic features, his pale skin and lightly tousled hair, it just… worked. God, she hated it when it seemed like he had every reason to be as bloody cocky as he was…

“In any case, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” he said with a shrug, then he gave her a salacious grin, “I can _say_ that now,”

“Not if you want to keep your nose unbroken,” she said, scowling.

“Fine, fine,” he said, holding his hands up in surrender, but still smirking, “I shall be the perfect gentleman and go and make you tea, giving you ample time to make yourself decent if you so wish.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course, decency is highly overrated in my opinion-”

 _Clearly_ … she thought, eyeing the deep V of chest that was visible above the loose tie at his waist. Her head snapped back up, and she glared at him, hoping it would distract him from the fact that she had been shamelessly ogling him.

“Malfoy,” she said warningly. “The tea?”

“Fine, I’m going. Milk and sugar?”

“Just milk.”

“Right.”

“Ok,”

He gave her a slightly stiff nod and disappeared. Hermione looked at the doorway for several seconds after he had gone, as her brain tried to make sense of the situation she was in. ‘Decency is highly overrated’… honestly.

Still, despite her confusion and uncertainty on how to proceed from here, she sat back in bed and allowed herself one small moment to feel. She smiled to herself. It felt good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, well I know I'm supposed to be doing NaNo, but I've been writing little bits of this all month whenever i've been feeling down to cheer myself up, so I thought screw it, have an early update. This fic has become my comfort food.


	22. Coffee First, Then Introspection.

Draco smiled as he entered the kitchen, then realised he was doing it, and squashed it immediately.

Coffee first, then he’d think about what had just happened. He opened the cupboard and got two mugs and his least ostentatious cafetiere, filling and boiling the kettle with a flick of his wand. He was a little hungover, not nearly as much as he’d expected, but what really surprised him was how different he felt today than the morning after the masquerade. That morning had been all bitterness and conflicted disappointment, but today he felt strangely unconcerned, as if it really was just a thing that had happened, as if he was living in some weird, parallel universe where his actions didn’t all come with consequences (usually disastrous ones) and a sense of crushing self-loathing. He tried to remember when the last time he’d made tea for someone that wasn’t related to him, and came up with nothing. He shook his head distractedly; it was far too early for him to be pondering the implications of that one. Still, he felt like this should feel more significant somehow, but as he spooned coffee into the cafetiere he felt neither terror nor elation, just a sort of calm that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

He frowned to himself. Coffee first, then introspection.

Then he remembered that he was supposed to be making _tea_ , and swore loudly. After a moment of indecision, he huffed to himself and started back towards the bedroom, then stopped in his tracks halfway down the hall. The door was open. Only just open, but enough that he could see a few feet of his bedroom and hear the soft noises of her bustling around out of sight. He’d said he was going to be a gentleman and let her get dressed, but the thought of her naked in his bedroom was unexpectedly destructive to his self-control. He blinked, pulled his robe tighter around himself like a shield and cleared his throat loudly.

“Uh, Granger?” the noises stopped, and he had the strangest mental image of her freezing like a deer in the headlights with her t-shirt halfway over her head.

“Yes?” she squeaked, then he heard the unmistakable sound of her pulling his blanket off the bed to cover herself. She cleared her throat. “What is it, Malfoy?”

“I’m having coffee,” he said, trying to stop himself from smiling, “I can make the tea if you want but I thought I’d see if-”

“Actually, coffee sounds great. I could use the caffeine.”

“Oh, well, ok,”

There was a pause.

“Are you still going to let me get dressed?” she asked, sounding tense, and for one mad moment he considered just saying no, just bursting in and throwing the blanket aside along with his dressing gown so that they were skin to skin again.

“Oh, yes, of course,” he stammered, hating himself. “Yes, I’ll just-”

She shut the door from inside, cutting him off.

“Right,” he muttered, scowling and turning back towards the kitchen.

Draco didn’t consider himself to be an awkward person, quite the opposite in fact, but where Hermione Granger was concerned, he apparently had no mid-point between suave arsehole and stammering idiot. Usually leaning towards the latter these days. Bloody woman.

He finished making the coffee, putting the cafetiere and mugs on the kitchen table, and sat down, taking a moment to inhale the glorious aroma. There was nothing quite like fresh coffee the morning after drinking. He ran his hand through his hair and sighed. It was a shame that his stupid birthday party was today, because the idea of lounging around the house in his dressing gown all day was deeply tempting. Even more tempting, though far less prudent, was the idea of shutting them both in his bedroom and spending the day re-discovering everything he’d been a bit too drunk to fully appreciate last night; mapping every inch of her body in the sunlight and learning which spots made her sigh softly, and which ones made her cry out and clench her hands in his hair. Merlin, but last night had been _fun_.

He poured himself a cup and as he set the cafetiere down, something in the other room caught his eye, a little hill of clutter in the otherwise tidy room. His coat from last night, flung haphazardly away and now crumpled on the floor with Granger’s bag perched on top. He supposed her top and his shirt were similarly abandoned on the way to the bedroom, unless Granger had managed to retrieve them this morning without him noticing. He took a sip of coffee, lamenting the fact that he hadn’t hung his coat up properly and now it would be all misshapen and creased, though he was sure it would have been a bit jarring if he had suddenly paused everything last night in order to go and lovingly hang up his coat. He wondered if Granger even had all her clothes in the bedroom with her, or if she was going to come tiptoeing out any second now draped in his bedsheets in search of her bra and knickers. He smirked to himself at the thought, and it was then that he saw the telltale green glow of the floo.

His heart seemed to freeze in his chest, and it was as if time slowed to a crawl, giving him ample time to mentally run through every terrible possibility for what would happen next. The top five worst outcomes all involved his mother. Why, oh why hadn’t he locked the bloody floo last night? He heard the brief roar of flames, hoping against hope that Granger heard them too. It wasn’t as if he knew her well, but he was pretty sure that she would enjoy discovery even less than he would. He sat silently, listening with bated breath, his cup halfway to his mouth. Well, he hadn’t heard his mother’s screeching yet. So far so good…

“Draco? You in there?”

Draco sighed in relief. Theo. Possibly the least problematic of all the people that might have been barging into his house at this hour. He set his cup down and stood up, schooling his expression into something- anything- other than that of a guilty schoolboy caught fooling around behind the quidditch pitch. Theo would know that expression immediately; he’d worn it nearly as many times as Draco had back at school. He leaned nonchalantly against the kitchen doorframe and watched as Theo took in the incriminating trail of clothes leading towards the bedroom. Thank Merlin there wasn’t anything easily identifiable as Granger’s; he must have undressed her mostly in the hallway and the bedroom, now all he had to pray for was that Theo didn’t recognise her bag…

Theo looked up at him with his eyebrows raised and the beginning of a smirk on his face. Draco rolled his eyes and shrugged, trying to look far calmer than he felt.

“Just thought I’d check you were alive,” he said, looking intolerably amused, “Given that you just disappeared yesterday without a trace, but I think that mystery’s solved, isn’t it?”

“Send a fucking owl next time.” Said Draco shortly, reasoning that the fewer words he said, the fewer chances there would be to incriminate himself.

“What good would that do? You wouldn’t be able to reply if you were dead.” He smirked and folded his arms, though thankfully didn’t come any further into the room. Theo, it seemed, was far less happy making himself at home than his mother was. “Anyway, haven’t you ever heard of locking the floo? You’re lucky it’s only me-”

“Don’t remind me,” he muttered.

Suddenly and without warning, the bag that had been sitting innocently on top of Draco’s coat shot up into the air and whizzed across the room and out of sight. Theo looked from Draco to the doorway it had disappeared into and back again.

“Well-” he began, but he stopped abruptly, apparently distracted by the black t-shirt that flew up and away through the same doorway.

Neither of them said anything for a minute or so, waiting in case any more random garments starting flying from hidden spots around the room, but when nothing happened, Theo shook his head in affectionate exasperation, an action which irritated Draco to no end.

“Well at least she’s not a muggle,” said Theo, “Don’t need to worry about breaking the Statute of Secrecy or anything.”

“Why are you still here?” asked Draco through gritted teeth, longing for his coffee.

“Fine,” he said, taking a step backwards into the fireplace. “Awfully grumpy, the morning after, aren’t you?”

“Fuck off, Theo,”

“I’m going, I’m going. Oh, and if I were you, I’d cover up that giant great bloody love-bite on your neck before tonight. Your mum might burst a vessel.”

“What-?” his hand flew to his neck before he could stop himself. He’d assumed that the tender patch at the juncture of his neck and shoulder was just where he had slept at a strange angle…

“Go and find a mirror.” Chuckled Theo, “I’m off.” and this time he did actually leave, disappearing in a flash of green flame.

Draco spent a few seconds glaring at the spot where Theo had been standing for good measure, then went to the kitchen, grabbed his wand and his coffee, and locked the fucking floo. When he tentatively made his way back to the bedroom, the door was still shut, so he crept closer, tapping one knuckle against the wood when he didn’t hear anything for a while.

“Granger?”

Nothing.

After a few moments of indecision, he gingerly pushed the door open, so slowly that she would have ample time to tell him to fuck off if she wanted, but he found it empty, the chaotic bed covers the only evidence that he hadn’t spent the night alone. He huffed in frustration and set his coffee down on the bedside table, falling heavily back onto the bed. Well, he certainly couldn’t blame her for fleeing when she heard Theo. Draco’s worst case scenario might have been his mother, but Theo was probably their only mutual friend, and therefore the most efficient vehicle of gossip that involved the two of them.

He shouldn’t be surprised, really, in hindsight the idea of them sitting and drinking coffee together at his kitchen table was somewhat bizarre. In fact, now she was gone the whole bloody thing seemed bizarre, as if he had been in some sort of trance and now he was finally seeing clearly. though maybe it was just the coffee waking his brain up. Theo had been right about one thing; he had been lucky that his mother hadn’t turned up. She might still turn up, but at least now she would find him alone, and at least she wouldn’t be tripping over Granger’s undergarments scattered around the place. Now there was a thought that chilled him to his very soul.

Fuck, his bed still smelled like her; coconut and a hint of something else. Mint, maybe? He’d have to remember to ask her next time-

He sat up abruptly, making his head throb. _Next time_? What on earth was he thinking? There shouldn’t even have been a _this_ time, no matter how good it was. In his brain he knew it, he knew that last night had been a fleeting diversion at best, and a monumental mistake at worst, but for some reason this just wasn’t translating to the rest of his body. The smell of her hair on his pillow made him remember waking up with his chin resting on the top of her head, her body held close to his. The memory made his stomach squirm, and not in a sickly, ‘oh no, what have I done’ kind of way, that he would have known how to deal with.

He sipped his coffee and propped himself up in bed on his pillows. If only he’d just told his mother ‘no’ all those months ago, when she’d told him about the masquerade. He snorted into his coffee at the thought that anyone, least of all him, could tell the great Narcissa Malfoy ‘no’. Still, even he had to admit that he was hard pressed to think of a better, more satisfying way to rebel against his mother than to bed Hermione Granger, even if she never even found out about it. With a small shock, he realised that it was entirely possible that bedding Draco Malfoy was the perfect way for Granger to rebel against her prudish, squeaky clean reputation. Well, Merlin knew she’d succeeded there, with him at least. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to look at her as the swotty little fun-sponge he’d thought she was before all of this, not after the way she’d danced with him yesterday.

Something caught his eye as he stifled a yawn, a little glint of silver almost hidden by the pillow. It was a chain, a tiny silver book pendant hanging from it; Granger’s necklace from yesterday, probably forgotten in her rush to escape. He stared at it for a few seconds, his sleepy brain still taking a frustratingly long time to form coherent thoughts. He should probably just give it back; he could just send it in an envelope by owl, that would be the grown-up thing to do, surely. Still, owling her after she’d only just left seemed a bit clingy, even if it was for a practical purpose, and it wouldn’t do to send the wrong message. He sighed irritably. Before he did anything else this morning he needed a shower, so he draped the necklace over his bedside clock so he wouldn’t forget about it.

It was probably a good thing that she had left when she did, he thought as he finished the last of his coffee, hauling himself out of bed towards the bathroom. He’d been far too tempted to initiate a second round, which could well have made him late for lunch with his parents, and the last thing he needed was them noticing that something had changed in his demeanour and asking probing questions. Of course, it was still possible that anyone might notice that tonight, but he didn’t think Theo would say anything, and Blaise simply didn’t care enough to remark on it, but his mother (and Pansy for that matter) had always been annoyingly perceptive in that regard. He’d just have to hope they would put it down to a hangover.

“Shit…” he groaned as he stepped up to the mirror, angling his head so he could see more of his neck. “Christ, Granger, are you part shark?”

He’d never been so aware of his so-called ‘delicate’ skin. He’d always bruised like a peach, a trait quite poorly suited to a quidditch player, though he’d certainly capitalised on it whenever he had called a foul, which was often. For whatever reason though, he rarely ran into this particular issue. Maybe it was because in general he liked to be more in control, or maybe it was because the women he tended to attract were, well, the word ‘insipid’ came to mind… but in any case, he honestly couldn’t remember the last time someone had _bitten_ him hard enough to leave a mark this prominent. It wasn’t just a bruise, either, he realised with a sinking feeling, that he might have been able to explain away as some sort of weird injury. No, it was painfully obvious that this was a bite mark. If he looked closely he could even make out the individual teeth around the edge.

“Shit.” He repeated. Well, at least he had his work cut out for him covering the damn thing up enough that no one (specifically, his mother) would notice it. That was fine though, he’d got very good at concealment charms over the years, the fact that Granger had yet to mention his dark mark was testament to that.

With any luck, there would be enough diversions tonight that his mother wouldn’t be scrutinising the side of his neck. With any luck, the party would be nothing but dry small-talk, forced laughs and tightly wound politeness; taxing enough to prevent him from obsessing about last night, yet tedious enough that it wouldn’t require full mental engagement. With any luck he’d have enough distraction between now and then to get Granger off his mind; enough distraction that he didn’t spend the whole day indulgently reliving every glorious second of last night…

But then, when had luck ever really been on his side?

“Shit,” he sighed. It was going to be a long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, how I wanted to write them having a second round, even before so many of you mentioned it in the comments! But I feel like they've got a little way to go before either of them are happy just going at it without any 'excuses'.


	23. Just Another Lazy Saturday

When Hermione’s feet hit the ground after apparating back to her apartment, she let out a monumental sigh of relief. The last fifteen minutes or so had been an emotional rollercoaster. First she’d realised that her bra wasn’t in his bedroom, which in itself was utterly mortifying, so she’d crept up to the door with his blanket wrapped around her like a toga, thanking every possible deity when she found it a few inches out of the bedroom, abandoned on the floor in their haste last night. Then, desperate just to not be naked anymore, she’d rushed to get dressed, forgetting to shut the door properly behind her. It had scared her half to death when he’d cleared his throat and she’d turned to see the door ajar while she had her knickers and her socks on and nothing else. He’d stayed outside though, which she was determined to be relieved about, even if for a moment she’d almost wished he would come in and pull her knickers off again with his teeth. That was ridiculous though, and the moment she shut the door she knew she had made the right decision, even if there was a kernel of disappointment in the back of her mind that she couldn’t quite rationalise.

Thank god she’d managed to wandlessly summon her bag when she heard voices in the other room, or she’d still be trapped in Malfoy’s bedroom in just jeans and a bra. For a moment, she wondered if she should have said goodbye, left a note or something, but at the time she was running on panic and nothing else and the thought of sticking around until someone discovered her there was not a pleasant one. What on earth would she have written anyway? ‘Draco, thanks for the great sex but it looks like you’ve got company so I’ll escape while I can’? She groaned to herself and pushed her hair off her face. Even using his first name still felt weird, which in itself was absurd given that they were far and away past the level of intimacy that was required for being on a first name basis with someone. She really, really wished that whoever it was had just waited a while to turn up at his door, just long enough for her to have her coffee.

Damn it, she had a feeling Malfoy’s coffee would have been amazing too. She groaned again and staggered into her kitchen to put the kettle on, then nearly jumped out of her skin when she found it occupied.

“Ginny! God, you scared me!”

“And what time d’you call this?” she said sternly, tapping her wrist even though she didn’t wear a watch. “Out all night? Harry and I were worried sick.”

“Has your mum ever heard your impression of her?” asked Hermione grumpily as she clutched her chest, willing her heart to slow down. She pursed her lips and stepped past Ginny to put the kettle on.

“’Course not,” said Ginny, grinning, “I don’t have a death wish.”

“Yes, well, it’s uncanny.” She said dryly, “Has Harry seen it?”

“Yeah… he says it creeps him out.”

“Well, no man likes to see his girlfriend turning into her mother.”

“Hey!”

“Why are you here anyway? Did you forget you moved out again?” she muttered tersely, noticing that Ginny already had a steaming cup of tea. “You’ve certainly made yourself at home,”

“Well fuck, aren’t you a ray of sunshine this morning?” she said haughtily, sticking her nose in the air, “For your information I only came over to invite you to dinner tomorrow, Mum’s doing a roast.”

“Oh,”

“Yeah, and I only forgot I moved out _once_ , and that was literally two days after I-”

“I know, I know…” said Hermione tiredly, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“If you’re suddenly all precious about your privacy you can always just change your wards to reject me-”

“No, don’t be silly, Ginny, it’s fine.” She sighed, her mood perceptively lightening now she had her own cup of tea. “Sorry, I’m just grumpy and a bit hungover. Stella made me have more shots after you left.”

“She _made_ you?” asked Ginny, smirking and sounding deeply sceptical.

“Oh shut up. You can’t talk anyway, we almost needed a crowbar to pry you off Harry yesterday so he could use the loo before you left.”

“That’s fair.” She shrugged, still grinning.

Hermione grunted in approval and finally took a sip of tea. She tipped her head back and sighed in bliss.

“Thank god for tea,” she murmured.

“In all seriousness though, Hermione, I was just going to pop my head in to see if you wanted to come tomorrow, then I saw you weren’t here and- I actually was a bit worried.”

“Well, thanks for the thought, I suppose. You can call off the search parties, though.” said Hermione after a small pause, “There aren’t actually search parties, right?”

“Don’t be stupid, I’ve only been here for about twenty minutes. I just told Harry I was staying for a cuppa, not technically a lie, as you can see.”

“Lying to Harry for me? I’m touched.”

“Alright, first of all, not a lie. We just established that.” Said Ginny, holding up one finger, then a second, “And second of all, I’m so done tiptoeing around the elephant in the room. What- or should I say ‘who’- were you doing aaalll night?” Ginny was grinning from ear to ear now, and it was all Hermione could do to stop herself looking like a guilty teenager. She sighed exasperatedly.

“Must we, Ginny?”

“Must we, Hermione?” she shot back, leaning back in the chair and crossing her arms, “I mean, I know we don’t talk as much since I moved in with Harry, but you can’t possibly expect me to let this go, right? Not when you’re sitting there looking like a puppy that got into the rubbish.”

Hermione just narrowed her eyes, trying to convey that she was really not in the mood for this. Internally she was kicking herself, though to be fair there was no way she could have known to expect Ginny sitting waiting for her at her kitchen table as if she hadn’t moved out more than a year ago. She sighed miserably.

“Bloody Spanish Inquisition…”

“You what?”

“Don’t worry about it, Ginny.”

“Right… Anyway, I’m not going to make you dish all the dirty details if you don’t want to-”

“Thank god for small miracles…”

“Hermione Jean Granger, if I have to force feed you a sober-up potion to get rid of this attitude, then so help me-”

“Oh my god, Ginny, please just stop with the Molly voice!” exclaimed Hermione, her patience snapping, “I am a grown woman - a grown woman who lives alone, by the way- and I have the right to spend the night wherever or with whomever I please without getting interrogated.”

“Ooh, getting verbose are you? You must be right het up.”

“Ginny,” she said warningly, suppressing a shudder at the idea of Ginny finding out exactly _who_ had got her all… het up.

“Fine, fine, message received,” said Ginny, holding her hands up in surrender.

“Thank you,” said Hermione, feeling her shoulders droop a little. “I’m sorry I’m being so tetchy Ginny, it’s just- I’m tired and I really just don’t want to talk about it, ok?”

“Well, as long as you’re-”

“I’m sure,” said Hermione firmly, “I’m fine. It’s nothing serious, Gin, I promise. I’m just tired and hungover and I desperately need a shower.”

“Fair enough.”

“Thanks Ginny,”

“Alright, I’ll let you get a shower,” she said, finishing her tea and standing up. “I’m here if you want to talk, though,”

“Thanks,” whispered Hermione, grabbing her waist and pulling her into a clumsy hug. Ginny just chuckled and patted her head.

“Ok, ok, I know, I’m a spectacular human being,”

“Truly, the best of us,” said Hermione, nodding sagely, to which Ginny rolled her eyes.

“Ok I’ll get going. I assume you don’t want a word of this to the boys?”

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Uhuh. Ok, fine, all in a days work for my spectacular self.”

“Of course,” said Hermione dryly.

“Ok, I’m actually going now. But, Hermione?”

“Yeah?”

“Weren’t you wearing a necklace yesterday?”

Hermione’s hand flew to her neck and - yes, Ginny was right, her necklace was gone. Shit.

“Shit…”

“Alrighty, I’ll leave you on that delicious revelation,” said Ginny, grinning widely, “See you!”

“Bye, Gin,” muttered Hermione, her cheeks burning as Ginny disapparated.

She sat in her silent apartment for several minutes, just mulling everything over. She didn’t remember taking her necklace off, but it had quite a long chain and it was entirely possible it had just slipped over her head at some point during yesterday’s activities, probably when she’d taken her top off… God, what a mess. And she couldn’t even go back there to retrieve it, not when she knew he had plans for the rest of the day. For all she knew that’d been his parents right before she left, and if she went back there she’d be apparating right into a Malfoy family gathering. The very thought made her feel nauseous. The less she thought about the rest of the Malfoys the better. Then there was Ginny. Hermione knew better than to think she would just let this go, she would be angling for details about this for weeks, though at least she trusted Ginny not to say anything to anyone else. She’d have to deal with that, maybe even think up a plausible lie about how she’d spent her night to get Ginny off her back. It certainly wasn’t an ideal situation, she hated lying, but as long as it never happened again it would be fine. She’d tell Ginny the whole truth in another ten years.

She’d just have to owl Malfoy tomorrow, distract herself today, and hope for the best.

An hour later, Hermione let out a long, low sigh as she sank into the bath. She had finished her second cup of tea, and had been wondering what she was going to do with her day, when inspiration had hit her. Nothing. She was going to do absolutely nothing with her day. So she’d peeled off her grungy clothes from last night, bundled up in her fleecy dressing gown and run herself a bath. She hadn’t even realised how much her muscles had been aching until she fully relaxed them in the steaming water, her eyes fluttering shut in sheer relief.

God, she had forgotten how exhausting actual sex was. At least they had managed to get to an actual bed this time though, her feet had ached for days after the masquerade. Still, she couldn’t help but think that these small complaints were fair payment for what had honestly been one of the most startlingly intense orgasms she’d had in years. Her face flushed as she remembered that it had been so intense that she had literally sunk her teeth into him, how embarrassing, she’d have to apologise for that.

“’Terribly sorry, Draco’,” she murmured to herself, “’I don’t usually do that, it’s just you made me come so hard I forgot my own name for a second there’, Yeah right. Like he needs that ego boost.”

She sighed and swirled her hand around in the water, making tracks through the scented bubbles as her mind began to wander. He’d looked so peaceful sleeping next to her, and remembering the way he’d pulled her closer and smiled into her hair made her stomach flip over. She knew it couldn’t happen again, not when he was who he was and so was she, but she couldn’t help but wonder what that might look like. Yesterday had been one clumsy, tipsy night, what on earth could he do to her if they had the whole day?

The thought sent a little shiver down her spine, and she had to force herself not to smile. Delightful fantasy material it might have been, but it wasn’t reality. In reality she didn’t even know where his house was, it could have been in France for all she knew. In reality, his birthday party would be over by tomorrow, and with it their only contrived reason to see each other outside shared social functions where both of them were obligated to play the same old parts of the ex-bully and the ex-victim.

In reality, it was over, and it was for the best. So why didn’t she feel like it was over? She frowned to herself and took a deep breath before submerging her head in the bath. This at least seemed to bring her back to her senses slightly. She pushed her wet hair off her face and settled back in the bath.

Yes. It was for the best.

Now all she had to do was stop thinking about him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short interlude in which nothing much happens other than Hermione saying 'screw it, that's future Hermione's problem.' Next few are probably going to be all Draco's POV, so I wanted a little bridge chapter.


	24. A Rude Awakening

Draco was late. He had been due to arrive at the Manor for lunch half an hour ago, but he had picked up a book a few hours ago to keep himself distracted and had completely lost track of time. He was mildly surprised that his mother hadn’t already sent a howler. As it was, he had glanced casually at his watch, then jumped up so rapidly he was sure that it must have looked quite comical if anyone had been watching. He had already cast half a dozen concealment charms on his neck, but still he paused at the mirror as he was tying his tie, craning his neck so he could check every angle.

It probably wouldn’t be so very terrible if someone saw it, it wasn’t as if they could identify that it was Granger’s work just from the pattern of teeth, but he was in no mood to be interrogated. It had been bad enough with Theo this morning. He took one last look at himself in the mirror. His mother would find something to complain about, he was sure, but it would have to do. He sighed long-sufferingly and disapparated.

When Draco arrived at Malfoy Manor, he was immediately directed upstairs to his old room by one of the house-elves his mother had hired for the night. The party wouldn’t start for several hours, but evidently his parents expected him to be formally dressed for their lunch, because he found his outfit for tonight laid out on his old bed as if he was a small boy who couldn’t be trusted to pick his own clothes. He supposed he could just go down as he was, he was already wearing a suit and tie after all, but ultimately he decided that it wasn’t worth the trouble. He wasn’t in the mood to argue over something as insignificant as what he was wearing, at the very least the suit was impeccably tailored as usual.

Oh, look. His mother had apparently been feeling generous, because she’d laid out three whole ties for him to choose from. Lucky him.

He sighed to himself and shut the door behind him. It always felt weird being back here. He knew better than to voice that thought in front of his mother, but privately it never ceased to amaze him that they were still allowed to throw parties in the same room where so many war crimes had been committed. Money, he supposed was the answer to that particular mystery, but Draco would just as soon have let the damn place burn to the ground - another opinion that was best kept private from his mother.

He undressed, purposefully avoiding the mirror in case he ended up sitting and scrutinising his neck for another half hour. Oh, who was he kidding, his mother was not above sending a howler upstairs if he took too long. It wouldn’t be the first time.

His parents were waiting for him in the parlour, sat at either end of the large, oval table. His father was reading the Daily Prophet and his mother was inspecting a vivid, almost luminously bright green macaron, with an expression on her face like she was holding something odious.

“Ah, Draco, I’m so terribly glad you deigned to grace us with your presence,” she said, not taking her eyes off the unfortunate confection.

“Morning, Draco,” drawled his father.

“It’s afternoon, dear,”

“Yes, yes of course,” His father’s head drifted inexorably back down to his paper.

“I’m sorry I’m late, mother,” said Draco taking care to keep his voice level as he sat down. “I overslept.”

“Hmm,” she hummed sceptically.

“What’s wrong with the macarons?” he asked tentatively, feeling that it was a safer topic than the reasons for his lateness.

“I asked for a nice, fresh _mint_ green. This looks poisonous.” she sniffed, finally putting it back down on the tiny plate in front of her, “I must speak to the elves after lunch, unacceptable really.”

Draco just grunted noncommittally as a cup of tea materialised in front of him. Woe betide whoever had chosen that particular shade of green, never mind that his mother could put it right with a casual tap of her wand. He paused for half a second before taking a sip of tea, wondering if feeling sorry for the help was a sign that Granger was rubbing off on him. His mother would certainly think so, but that only made him more inclined to embrace the sentiment. Granger herself would probably just give him a withering stare and sarcastically congratulate him for doing the absolute bare minimum for being a halfway decent human being. He smiled to himself.

“Now, Draco, your father and I have been talking, and we both agree that this evening is a wonderful opportunity to set a few things straight.”

“Yes,” said his father, setting the paper down and looking more like his old self than Draco had seen him in years. “I’m sure we don’t need to tell you that this family is not what it once was,”

Draco frowned. He didn’t like the sound of this.

“Indeed,” said his mother, steepling her fingers, “Now we’ve turned a blind eye to your juvenile… indiscretions, up until now,”

“After the war, we agreed it seemed like a relatively harmless way to ah, _cope_ ,” said his father, “Maybe even understandable-”

 _“Lucius_!” hissed his mother.

“My apologies, dear. A poor choice of words.”

“I should say so.” She sniffed, “In any case, Draco, your blatant debauchery was tolerated-”

“ _Debauchery_?” spluttered Draco. “Just a slight exaggeration, no?”

“It was tolerated,” she said firmly as if he hadn’t spoken, “But now ten years have passed, and it seems as if the wizarding world is finally ready to accept this family and we must welcome that acceptance, even if it is as a shadow of what we once were. We must rise to the occasion.”

Oh, he didn’t like the sound of this one bit…

“What are you getting at, mother?” he asked tightly.

“I must say, I’m a little ashamed that you apparently need me to spell it out for you, Draco. You are the scion of two ancient and respected wizarding families, and the time has come for you to act like it.”

“And stop whoring around, you mean?” he said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

“Quite.” Said his mother, wrinkling her nose.

“Don’t be so crude, Draco,” said his father sharply, “You’re only proving our point.”

Draco said nothing. It wasn’t the first time his mother had admonished him for his ‘juvenile indiscretions’ as she put it, but this felt different. He knew an ambush when he saw it, and the fact that she’d got his father to chime in was a sign that she meant business. He thought of last night, holding onto Granger’s hips as she moved her body against him to the music, slamming her up against the wall at the apparition point and then revealing her body piece by magnificent piece as they staggered together through his apartment. He felt sick for a moment, as if his body wasn’t quite sure what it wanted to feel.

“Think of this as a turning point, Draco,” she said, once again focusing intently on the macaron.

“A turning point?” he said weakly.

“Yes, well, to put it bluntly; you’ve had something of a holiday from your duty since the war. A necessary evil, to be sure, but now the time has come for you and indeed, this family to step back into the light.”

“Well said.” Said his father.

Draco frowned, marshaling his thoughts. This wasn’t wholly unexpected, in fact now he thought about it he was surprised that they’d never sat him down and had this conversation before. He could even see the logic in it, unpleasant though it was… so then why did it feel like a noose was tightening around his neck?

“So- what exactly are you suggesting?” he asked slowly.

“What are _you_ suggesting, Draco?” asked his mother imperiously, “That I am going to auction you off like a prize pig in the name of elevating our family name?”

Draco said nothing. That had been exactly what he was thinking- what he was still thinking. He was half expecting some woman to step out of the wings, extensive family tree in hand to demonstrate exactly the right level of inbreeding, if there was such a thing.

She sighed and glared at him, setting her teacup down with an ominous clink.

“Even if that was my intention, it would be nothing more than was expected from both myself and your father.” She said, her tone icy. “It was pure luck that we happened to be so well suited to one another. I am merely imploring you to act as befitting your station, and stop embarrassing yourself by cavorting around like a barbarian. You are rapidly approaching thirty, you are a member of wizarding society’s elite, and the time has come for you to stop rolling around in the dirt.”

And with that, she stood up with a rustle of silk and swept away out of the room, presumably to go and confront whatever poor wretch was responsible for the green macarons.

Both Draco and his father were silent for several minutes, drinking their tea and ignoring the platter of perfect little triangular sandwiches that had appeared almost immediately after his mother had left. Draco tried to remember when the last time he’d seen his father eat anything, he seemed to look thinner every time he saw him, his sallow skin hanging off his bones. Everyone always told him how much they looked alike, but Draco couldn’t help but hope he wasn’t looking at some sort of warped, fun-house mirror of his future self.

“She has a point, you know, Draco,”

Draco said nothing.

“I don’t profess to be informed of all the latest gossip, but even I am aware that your taste isn’t as ah- _discriminating_ as it might once have been-”

Draco blinked. If his father only knew… He unconsciously shrugged his shoulders slightly, pushing his collar further up his neck.

“No, no, that’s it,” said Draco, standing up abruptly and scowling, “I refuse to have this conversation.”

“If you say so,” he said with a shrug, looking back down at the paper. “But she has a point.”

Draco almost argued, but thought better of it, and instead stalked off back to his room. She did have a point; they both did. What on earth would his past self have thought if he could see him now? Dancing in a muggle club and then going home with Hermione fucking Granger? He must have lost his mind. But then, the words his mother had used made him uneasy; ‘rolling around in the dirt’ smacked of the old pureblood vocabulary, and he didn’t like it. He wanted his family name to stop being dragged through the muck as much as his parents, but he had no illusions about everything going back to what it was like before the war. What was more, he didn’t want it to go back to the way that it was, and for all her blustering about public perception, his mother- his parents did want a return to the old ways, the casual superiority of the ‘right people’, before Voldemort showed everyone what pureblood supremacy really looked like. He sighed and forced himself to think of other things. Today was going to be hard enough without obsessing over things past and the unfathomable motivations of his mother.

The rest of the day passed in a blur, Draco feeling strangely disembodied as the manor was transformed around him. In his opinion, the elegant decorations and ubiquitous hors d’oevres only served to make the place slightly less depressing than usual, but who was he to talk? It was only his birthday party. He was beginning to get a very bad feeling about tonight. Why did everything suddenly feel so _wrong_? Merlin knew they’d never been the closest of families, and there was a good reason he’d moved out of the Manor at the earliest opportunity, but he’d never felt quite so out of place here, so uncomfortable in his own skin. Not since the war, anyway.

By the time the first guests started to arrive he was well and truly unnerved. He didn’t know what was going on with him, but he absolutely, flat out refused to admit that Granger had anything to do with it. He scoffed to himself as he poured himself a drink, it was hardly the first time that he had felt the weight of everything that had happened in this place press down on him, and none of the other times had required a Granger shaped catalyst. He was just being morose because he was dreading tonight- yes, that would be it.

He greeted the guests as they arrived, he made small-talk, he even managed to force a laugh at some of the tone-deaf jokes they made. He shuddered to think of what Granger would think of him if he saw him chuckling about blood purity over brandy with half of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. He hated every second of it, of course, but he could see exactly what he looked like through her eyes; he looked like the worst possible version of himself, and he found that strangely, that actually really bothered him.

He drained his glass and tried to steel himself. It was just one night, he just had to play this stupid game for one night, do his duty, if only on the surface. After tonight- well, he’d play the part, be more careful. His mother was exaggerating of course, it wasn’t as if he was with a different woman every night, the issue was his indiscretion rather than exactly what he was doing. It was possible that this line of reasoning was just a more complicated version of ‘what mother doesn’t know won’t hurt her’, but he didn’t care if the outcome was the same. He didn’t care if it meant he could repeat yesterday, with more time, more-

“Shit,” he muttered, frowning and starting his way back towards the drinks. No repeat. There wasn’t going to be another yesterday. It was simply not possible. He would just get through tonight, then he could go back to normal, go back to being whatever his parents thought a dutiful son was… go back to sleepwalking.

He could do that… couldn’t he?

Someone called his name, and he realised he had been standing and staring at the assembled bottles like a zombie. He shook his head distractedly and turned to see Pansy strolling towards him, an almost unnervingly beautiful man on her arm.

“Draco, happy birthday!” she said, opening her arms as if to hug him, but not actually trying to do so.

“You literally saw me yesterday, Pansy,” he said, grinning even as he rolled his eyes.

“Just doing the thing properly, you big grouch,” she said with a tinkling laugh that reminded Draco of the sound of a wineglass shattering, “This is Stefan, he just portkeyed from Switzerland this morning,”

“Draco Malfoy,” said Draco, holding his hand out. Stefan took it and shook, and opened his mouth to say something, but Pansy cut him off.

“Come on, we’d better pay our respects to the Lord and Lady,”

“Don’t start, Pansy,” said Draco wearily, “I really am not in the mood to hear your ‘Lord Malfoy’ bit today.”

“Whatever you say, birthday boy,” said Pansy with a toothy grin that still raised his hackles even after all these years. “Come on, Stefan,”

Stefan opened his mouth again, but this time Pansy simply grabbed his elbow and steered him away. Draco watched them go, battling a rare surge of insecurity. Stefan must be part veela, that was all there was to it no one who was entirely human could be that freakishly… symmetrical. He hoped he’d get a handle on his situation before Pansy found out about his conversation with his parents, she would laugh her arse off if she learned his mother had outright ordered him to stop screwing around.

His mind flitted back to his bedroom, to his clock, and the delicate little silver chain draped over it. It had still been warm when he’d picked it up. He glanced at his watch; eight thirty. Just a few more hours, he’d owl Granger tomorrow and everything would be back to normal- that is if his mother didn’t manage to marry him off between then and now. If his mother hadn’t already married him off without him even knowing it…

“Draco,” came her singsong voice over the crowds, “Come over here, I want to introduce you to someone!”

“Speak of the devil…” he muttered to himself. He took a deep breath and refilled his glass.

Just a few more hours, then he could stop sleepwalking and maybe even get some actual sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goddamn, the Malfoys are no fun. I miss writing the dirty chapters...  
> Draco will get his shit together eventually, or else :P


	25. The Vipers Nest

Draco strode purposefully across the busy room, trying his best to look arrogant and ever so slightly bored, trying to channel his past self. This was his party, these were his friends, this was his ancestral home, and he had every reason to look self-assured, even if the truth was that he couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so bewildered, so directionless. He usually like to have at least the semblance of a plan, but beyond surviving tonight and at some point returning that necklace, he really did have absolutely no idea what he was going to do next. He neared his mother, who was beckoning him closer and chatting animatedly to a tall woman in a very tight green dress. There had to be magic at work here, because he didn’t understand how she could breathe otherwise, he could literally see her ribs outlined in the clingy material.

“Ah, Draco,” said his mother with a wide smile that he never saw except when she was with a very specific type of company, “This is Petra Martell. Petra, dear, this my son,”

“Charmed,” said Petra, extending a bony hand.

“Likewise,” he said, shaking her hand and hoping she wasn’t expecting him to kiss it, “How are- wait, Martell? From-”

“From the Prophet, yes,” she said, with a trite little giggle that he gathered was supposed to sound charming and self-deprecating. It did not. He sighed; a reporter. Shit. He should have seen it coming really, knowing his mother. All he could do now was tread very, very carefully and hope his mother wasn’t about to publicly announce his engagement to some woman.

“Petra was a dear friend of Rita Skeeter before-”

“Yes, before the accident,” said Petra with practised solemnity, “A terrible loss. Just such a shame that she couldn’t manage to transform back into herself before the swatter hit her.”

“Draco was terribly fond of Rita, you know,” said his mother, patting Draco’s shoulder.

“Oh and the feeling was mutual,” said Petra, smiling sadly with her hand over her heart.

Draco said nothing. Yes, at one point he had seen Rita Skeeter as a useful tool for humiliating Potter and his cohorts and generally facilitating his being the spiteful little shit that he had been, but those days were long past, and even at the height of his spitefulness, he certainly was never ‘fond’ of her. As for the feeling being mutual, he wasn’t sure that woman had even been capable of such affection, the only thing she had felt anything close to fondness for was that damn quill of hers. Fuck, he hoped Petra hadn’t inherited it. He’d have to watch every word out of his mouth from now on, not that being careful had ever been much insurance against her hatchet jobs. He groaned internally and resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration, he was too tired for this.

“You mother was just telling me about your friend Mr Nott’s engagement,”

“Oh, yes,” said Draco, grateful that the conversation was about something other than him. “I’m very happy for them,”

“We all are,” said his mother pointedly. “Oh look, the Rosellins have arrived! Please do excuse me, Petra dear,”

“Of course,”

“Wait, mother-”

But it was too late, she had already disappeared, sweeping away towards the front door and leaving Draco alone with Petra. He clenched his jaw and willed himself calm, taking a sip of his drink.

“Narcissa is ever the dutiful hostess, I see,” she said, inclining her champagne flute towards his mothers wake.

“That she is,” he muttered.

“So tell me, Draco, any wedding bells in your future?”

He almost choked on his drink.

“Merlin, don’t beat around the bush,” he spluttered before he could stop himself.

“I never was one for tact, just gets in the way don’t you think?” she said with a smile that showed a few too many teeth to be pleasant. “Now, you are becoming quite the eligible bachelor,”

“I-”

“So? Do you have someone special? Any plans for the future-?”

“If I did you’d be the last person I would tell.” he said abruptly, cutting her off and abandoning any pretence of being careful with his words, “I’ve no interest in being on the front page, sorry.”

“Well well, don’t you think a lot of yourself,” she said, with another saccharine giggle.

“Sorry, I have to go.”

“But-”

He didn’t let her finish, just knocked back the rest of his drink and set off to find his mother. He was going to pay for that, from both Petra and his mother, but right now he didn’t care. He didn’t care about making a scene, he didn’t care about what happened next, he was just done. Done with playing along, done with turning a blind eye to the way his mother constantly manipulated him, done with-

“Draco, hi,”

He stopped in his tracks as if he’d walked right into a wall, reality crashing down upon him.

“Oh, hi,” he said, blinking rapidly as he came back to his senses, “Hi, Theo.” Had he really been just about to go and make an enormous bloody scene at his own birthday party?

“You alright there?” said Theo, frowning, “You look like-”

“I think I might have genuinely lost my mind for a second there, Theo,” he said weakly.

“Nothing new there…”

“I think you might have just saved my life by snapping me out of it…”

“What the-”

“Mother sicced Rita Skeeter junior over there on me, and I was really angry; I was going to-to make a scene…”

Theo let out a low whistle.

“That would not have been fun for you.” He said.

“No, it would not.”

“And with a bloody reporter here? Not your best idea, Draco, and you’ve done some truly mind-bogglingly stupid things over the years.”

“I know…” he said, wanting to ask exactly what he had done that was so stupid, but thinking better of it. “Hi, Stella,”

Stella appeared at Theo’s elbow with two glasses of wine.

“What did I miss?” she asked.

“Nothing,” said Draco, too quickly.

“Oh, just telling my dear old friend here to stay out of trouble,” chuckled Theo, to which Draco gave his very best death glare. Unfortunately, Theo had long since become immune to Draco’s glares and he just rolled his eyes, grinning. “Shouldn’t you be off schmoozing?”

“Probably,” he muttered, not moving an inch and scowling into his glass.

“Stella, would you mind giving us a minute?” said Theo slowly. Stella looked from Draco to Theo and back again, then nodded and kissed Theo’s cheek and left in Pansy’s direction.

“Better watch out, Theo, Pansy’s date is-”

“Who, Stefan? Don’t worry about it, he’s gay. Pansy’s friends with him because he’s got all the best gossip, he’s dated half the aristocracy in Europe, from what I hear.”

“The male half presumably,”

“One would assume, yes.”

“Ah, in that case _Stella_ had better watch out.”

“Oh please, if he’s going for anyone it’d be you.” Said Theo with a shameless wink, “From what Pansy’s told me, Stefan has a type.”

“Oh shut up,”

“Look, Draco, in all seriousness are you alright? You seem… out of it.”

“Well that’s a fucking understatement… I don’t know what is wrong with me, Theo, and then I get here and mother’s trying to bloody marry me off-”

“Well your mother’s got her work cut out for her, doesn’t she?” he snorted.

“Theo,” he sighed, almost running his hand through his hair before he remembered that his mother had insisted he smooth it back and it would only be inviting her wrath if he messed it up. Then he remembered that he was twenty eight, not eleven, and his mother in reality had zero say in how he wore his hair, and now he had thought it, he suddenly saw how utterly absurd this was. He was a grown man, wearing the suit his mother had picked out for him, at the party she had planned for him, afraid to mess up his hair in case in incurred her wrath. He had been worried that this latest mess with Granger would be another scandal, another indiscretion his parents would scold him for, but now the scales were falling from his eyes, and he could see a blurry outline of the truth. At the masquerade he had unwittingly tugged on a loose string, and now the whole, suffocating prison he had put himself in was unravelling.

“This isn’t about this morning is it?” asked Theo.

“No, of course not.” He lied. “I just don’t particularly like the idea of not having a say in my own life.”

“Fair enough.” He said, and Draco just grunted noncommittally in response. Theo was his closest friend, but that wasn’t really saying much; they had a long history together and a lot of shared trauma, but neither of them were particularly open people, and mercilessly taking the piss out of each other was pretty much as close to a real heart-to-heart as they got. Honestly, he wasn’t entirely sure how Theo would react if he found out about him and Granger, especially since Stella was obviously friends with her, but he knew that if he told Theo about it it would certainly be a longer conversation than they could have in the middle of this circus.

“I’m fine,” said Draco vaguely, “I’m fine, really, I just didn’t get much sleep last night-”

“I can imagine…”

“Shut up. Anyway, I’m tired, I’ll be fine tomorrow.”

“Suit yourself,” said Theo with a shrug, “I’d better get back to Stella, and you’d better get back to your adoring public.”

“Joy.”

“Merlin, whoever that was this morning has the patience of a saint…”

“Theo, don’t-”

“Good job with that concealment charm by the way, you’d never know-”

“Shut the fuck up, will you?” hissed Draco. He went to take a drink and found his glass disappointingly empty. “I’m getting another drink, and not another fucking word about last night, ok? Not here, anyway…”

“Whatever you say,”

“Hmm.”

“See you later then,”

“Yeah…”

Theo gave him one last look, as if he had far, far more to say, but thankfully he just sighed, gave a stiff nod and set off back to Stella. Draco watched him for half a second before forcing himself to turn away. Making a scene wasn’t the way to go about this, no matter how satisfying it would be, if he wanted things to change without demolishing whatever relationship he already had with his parents, he would have to be very careful, not to mention far more diplomatic than he felt like being at this particular moment. Maybe he was just a coward, he knew in his heart that that’s exactly what Granger would think, but he also knew in his heart that now was not the time to blow up his life. He could do this for a few more hours, and then… he wasn’t sure, but he damn well wasn’t going to put up with his mother picking his clothes anymore.

An hour passed, then another, and Draco could have fallen to his knees in gratitude when he saw the first of the guests begin to leave. He’d be even happier if Petra had been among them, but at this point he needed to know that the end was in sight, he needed to know that every second he suffered here meant he was a second closer to apparating home, falling into bed and drifting into blissful, inky blackness. He smiled and nodded mechanically as Bertie Rosellin droned on about his mother’s most recent renovation to the gardens, apparently the hedge maze had put up a bit of a fight after the masquerade, and the whole area needed to be completely re-planted. Draco arranged his face into what he hoped was something like sympathy, but his mind had already drifted inexorably back to the brief time he had spent in that hedge maze. The way the twilight had thrown her features into sharp relief, the elegant mask accentuating her dark eyes. There had been a moment last night, when she’d looked up at him in the club, the lurid, flashing lights making her look almost otherworldly, and he’d seen the same woman he’d locked eyes with over the dancefloor at the masquerade, that clever, vibrant woman with the sly smiles and sharp tongue. Then he had asked her to come home with him, and the rest was history.

“…Don’t you think, Draco?”

“I-sorry, Bertie, what was that?”

“Don’t you think that all the gold leaf is a tad vulgar?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he said distractedly. “Sorry, Bertie, I- um, I just remembered something I have to tell my mother.”

“Oh, oh yes, of course-” said Bertie, but Draco had already turned on his heel and begun to walk away.

His mother was speaking to a house-elf, but she dismissed her with a haughty wave when Draco approached.

“Ah, Draco, I was just wondering-”

“I’m going to go, mother,” he said firmly, before he could talk himself out of it.

“What?” she said, her tone icy.

“I’m exhausted, and people are starting to leave anyway.”

“Draco, you cannot be serious,”

“I’ll say goodbye to everyone, I’m not a boor,” he said, and his mother gave him a look that said in no uncertain terms that she disagreed with his assessment. “Look mother, I came, I chatted, I laughed at Merlin knows how many terrible jokes, and now I am begging you to let me get an early night without an argument.”

She didn’t say anything for a moment, just narrowed her eyes at him, but then she sighed, and Draco knew he had won.

“I’m not a monster, Draco,” she said, “You did very well tonight, and everyone knows it was Mr Nott’s engagement party was last night. I believe the guests will excuse your leaving early.”

“Thanks you.” He said stiffly, knowing full well that it wasn’t the guests’ approval that he needed. He turned to go and start the lengthy task of bidding farewell to the remaining guests.

“Wait, Draco,”

“Yes?”

“I know you’ve been attentive to all the guests tonight, but I wonder did you get a chance to speak to Petra at length?”

“You mean other than earlier when you abandoned me?” he asked dryly.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” said his mother, rolling her eyes and swatting at him affectionately, “I only wanted the two of you to get a chance to talk.”

“Mother, if she is anything at all like her predecessor, you should know better than to look to her for good publicity.”

Then his mother frowned; the expression was only there for the smallest fragment of a second, but it was long enough for Draco to recognise the rare look of genuine surprise that crossed her face. Then the pieces dropped into place in his brain and the truth hit him like a bucket of ice water. She wasn’t here as a reporter.

“You can’t be serious,” he hissed, briefly glancing over his shoulder to make sure they weren’t being overheard. “Mother please do not tell me you are trying to set me up with that woman.”

“And why not?” she asked haughtily, “Why is that such an absurd idea?”

“I- because-”

_Because I don’t want to. Because Petra has all the warmth and approachability of an ice pick. Because I’d be afraid to break it off with her in case my words would end up twisted up on the front page of tomorrow’s Prophet. Because I can’t help but compare her fake smile and harsh, brittle laugh to the way Granger had looked this morning, tousled and sleepy, her expression softer than he’d ever seen it._

His mind supplied reason after reason, but he knew he couldn’t voice any of them, so he just shut his mouth and folded his arms.

“All I’m asking of you, Draco, is to keep an open mind-”

“Ah, but not so open as to just be rolling around in the dirt, right?” he said bitterly, lowering his voice, “You know, you seem to want me to act my age at the same time as you want me to wear the clothes you pick out for me at every event, and I’m not sure those things are compatible.”

She glared at him, and for a moment he wondered if he had gone too far, but he stood his ground, setting his jaw and glaring right back, and after a few deeply uncomfortable moments she finally pursed her lips and looked away with an expression on her face as if she’d taken a drink, expecting it to be champagne, only to take a gulp of stagnant pond water instead.

“Don’t make this a habit.” She said coldly, “I can excuse tonight, but going forward I expect you to honour your commitments fully. That means staying until the guests have actually left.”

He couldn’t bring himself to say anything, so he just nodded, turning away again. The realisation that something had to change in his life had felt like being dunked into the arctic ocean earlier, but now the feeling had softened, sitting over him like cold, melancholy rain. He might be drenched now, but at least he wasn’t drowning anymore.

Draco said his goodbyes, made his excuses, and sighed an enormous sigh of relief when he finally apparated home. He really did need an early night, but there was something he had to do first. He sat down at his desk and pulled out a quill and some parchment. His mother had been right this morning when she’d said that this was a turning point, she had just been wrong about the direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I kill off Rita Skeeter off-screen with a fly-swatter? Yes. Was it my favourite part of this chapter? Also yes.  
> Petra is low-key named after a hagraven in skyrim, since i imagine her kind of like a cross between Rita Skeeter, a literal vulture, and Maris from Frasier.


	26. Passing Notes

Hermione was awoken on Sunday morning by an insistent tapping at her bedroom window, and when she wrenched her curtains open she saw a large eagle owl sitting on her windowsill. She blinked sleepily at it for a moment, but then it squawked indignantly at her, and she hurriedly opened the window. She took the letter from its proffered leg, smothering a yawn as the owl hopped inside, ruffling its feathers and looking at her expectantly.

“Alright, hold on,” she muttered, “I think I’ve got some owl treats in the other room.”

Barely awake, she grabbed her dressing gown and got the little bag she normally kept by the living room window, where most of her owl post was delivered. Who on earth was writing to her at home on a Sunday morning anyway? Then she noticed the name on the letter. _Lizzie._

Well, at least now she was pretty sure exactly who the hell was writing to her.

She stared down at the neatly folded parchment, transfixed for a moment by the angular handwriting spelling out a name that wasn’t hers. Then she scolded herself for being so silly, sat down at her desk and unfolded it with a small sigh.

_Lizzie,_

_Forgive the cloak and dagger, but I met Rita Skeeter’s former protege this evening, and I thought that given the circumstances it was probably better to be safe than sorry. I’d love to tell you tonight was an unmitigated disaster, but it wasn’t. I did exactly what was expected of me, acted exactly like the dutiful son my mother wanted, and somehow I’ve never felt less like myself._

_I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I’m only writing to inform you that you left your necklace yesterday, and I didn’t want to post it with this in case it got lost or something. I’m sorry about Theo this morning, he has no concept of privacy, but he has no idea it was you. He did notice the great big bloody souvenir you left on my neck though, thanks again for that. Anyway- shit, I’ve lost my train of thought. Just let me know how you want me to return the necklace._

_Oscar_

Hermione re-read the letter two more times before she slumped down into the sofa, frowning. She’d be lying if she said the return of their one-time aliases hadn’t made a little bubble of excitement in her stomach, but she knew who had really written these words, and the thought that Draco Malfoy had written her to tell her about his day was possibly the strangest thing that had ever happened to her. It was even stranger than Draco Malfoy telling her point blank that he wanted to have sex with her. Once in fifth year, she had overheard Lavender and Parvati gossipping after she’d lost her temper with him over some damn thing; they’d been giggling profusely, and she remembered their words so clearly, even now: “God, it’s like they’re either going to fuck each other or kill each other, isn’t it?” Well, much as she hated to admit it, they had been right on the money with that one apparently. In any case, there was something so fundamentally weird about this casual expression of familiarity, and she really wasn’t sure what to make of it.

She was even less sure about how to respond, and she knew she _did_ have to respond, she couldn’t just ignore it. She tried to get on with her day, charming the creases out of her dress for work tomorrow, washing her hair and finally sitting down on the sofa with a cup of tea and her latest book, and it wasn’t until she realised she had read the same paragraph three times that she knew that she wouldn’t get a wink of sleep tonight with that damn letter unanswered. With a frustrated huff, she got up and went to her desk, slapping the letter down in front of her along with a fresh page.

_Dear Oscar,_

She wrote, then groaned to herself and got up again, retrieved her wand and vanished the ink. _Dear?_ She reminded herself forcefully who she was really writing to, took a breath and started to write again.

_Oscar,_

_I can forgive the cloak and dagger, but I’m not going to comment on your birthday party. I’m sorry but I refuse to touch the subject of you feeling uncomfortable holding a soiree in the room in which I was-_

She paused. Was she really about to call him out for having a birthday party in his own home? His home which also happened to be the place where so many people were tortured and worse, herself included… She vanished the last line with her wand.

_I’m not going to comment on your feelings about your mother’s expectations. I’m sorry but I refuse to touch the subject of your family dynamics, it’s just too weird. I’m going to be busy all day tomorrow, I’ve got back-to-back meetings and the chances of none of them running over is pretty much non-existent. I don’t know what your schedule looks like, but if you’re worried about ending up on the front page your best bet might be to meet in muggle London one day - that is assuming you don’t want to just leave it on my desk or in my letterbox? That would be fine too._

_Let me know._

_Lizzie_

She read and re-read what she’d written, and she was just about to crumple it up and start again when she realised the only way this letter was leaving this house was if she just bit the bullet and posted the damn thing, so she folded it up, sealed it with a charm, and went over to the window where Malfoy’s owl was still waiting. She shoved down the last of her insecurities and watched uneasily as the owl flew off into the chilly London morning. She shivered slightly, then shook her head as if to shake away the memory of the past few minutes. Each new development in this - whatever this was with Malfoy, made everything feel more surreal, made even the familiar things in her life seem less comforting.

Hermione went about her day as best she could, but she was distracted, her train of thought wispy and indecisive. Malfoy’s owl had woken her up earlier than she had intended, and now she was bustling around restlessly trying to tidy her kitchen and it wasn’t even noon yet. She sighed and stared unseeing out of her window. No, she refused to go out of her mind over this. Then she remembered Ginny’s offer yesterday. Her fridge was empty, and in that moment the thought of a magnificent, Weasley-sized Sunday roast was simply too tempting to pass up.

So here she was, hours later, sitting around in the living room at the Burrow after dinner. It was always a tad awkward since she and Ron had broken up, especially between her and Molly, but it got less uncomfortable every time she went, and now it was almost like it had been before they’d even got together; maybe not an honorary Weasley anymore, but certainly a family friend. Ron was currently playing chess with Harry, while the others sat around chatting sleepily, digesting the feast that Molly had prepared. It wasn’t until Hermione was almost ready to go home that Ginny cornered her on the way back from the bathroom.

“I’m think I’m heading off-” Hermione began, but Ginny cut her off.

“Come here, while the boys are busy.”

“What-?”

Ginny grabbed her hand and pulled her upstairs to her old bedroom, shutting the door behind her and turning on Hermione with a triumphant grin on her face.

“So,” she said.

“So what?”

“So, yesterday I was being generous because you were all tired and hungover-”

“Ginny,” sighed Hermione irritably, “I promise you, I don’t want to talk about it now anymore than I did yesterday.”

Ginny rolled her eyes and shuffled past her to sit down on the bed.

“Come on, Hermione, I’m just giving you the opening to vent about the other night if you want to.” She smiled reassuringly and patted the bed next to her.

Hermione just hummed sceptically, folding her arms and staying put.

“Don’t want to vent? Fine.” Said Ginny, shrugging.

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

The was a small silence in which Hermione shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, and Ginny looked innocently out the window over the countryside. Hermione sighed.

“Fine.” She said.

“What?”

“Fine, you win.”

“Yes!” said Ginny gleefully, patting the bed again. Hermione sat down and took a deep breath, lining up all the innocuous truths and the blatant lies in her head before she spoke. Obviously she couldn’t tell the whole truth, but on paper, without knowing their actual identities the whole thing wasn’t so very scandalous, certainly not to Ginny, anyway. In another life it might almost have been exciting- no, no she couldn’t go down that train of thought, not now.

“It wasn’t anyone we know,” she lied, “Just a muggle guy from the club downstairs.”

“Bullshit.”

“What?”

“Bullshit! Are you trying to tell me that you, Hermione Granger, just met some random guy on the dancefloor and then went home with him and spent the whole night together? Bullshit.”

“I told you, there were way too many shots,” she said, squirming uncomfortably and not meeting Ginny’s eye.

“Well, that much I believe. So, do you like, remember everything, or is it all a big, vodka soaked haze? Did you even know his name?”

“Yes, of course I did! I wasn’t _that_ drunk…”

“Ahah! So you admit you weren’t that drunk,”

“What? Well yeah- Yes, that’s what I just said…”

“What I _mean_ is that I personally do not believe that anything less than full-on, blackout drunkenness could induce you to actually go home and have sex with some random guy you just met, Hermione.”

Immediately, Hermione’s mind flew back to the masquerade, kissing in the hedge maze with a perfect stranger, then riding his fingers in a darkened supply cupboard.

“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think, then.” She said quietly, and to her satisfaction, Ginny looked genuinely taken aback for a moment.

“Are you trying to tell me that you’ve been living some sort of secret life, Hermione?” she asked, raising a sceptical eyebrow. “All those nights you say you’re staying in you’re actually out drinking and having one-night-stands and generally painting the town red? I mean, no judgement, it’s just-”

“No, of course I haven’t been living a bloody secret life.” said Hermione tersely, thrown off by how poorly her attempt at modifying the truth had gone straight off the bat. She folded her arms. “I thought you were going to let me talk?”

“Sorry, sorry,” said Ginny, raising her hands apologetically, “I’ll keep my comments to myself.”

“It’s not a big deal, Ginny, it’s really not,” she said, trying to convinced herself as much as her friend, “It happened, I’m not particularly proud of it, and it’s never happening again.”

Ginny said nothing for several excruciatingly tense seconds, giving Hermione enough time to reflect on the truth of her words- or lack thereof. She wasn’t proud of it, but she wasn’t ashamed either, it was just… complicated, and that was why she wasn’t quite sure if she meant it when she said it was never happening again. One thing she was sure of was that she damn well wasn’t ready to discuss it with Ginny. God, the last time she had been up in this room talking about boys, the subject of their discussion had been Ginny’s feelings about Harry and whether Hermione should wear her hair up or down to Bill and Fleur’s wedding. It felt like eons ago.

“Well, I said I’d keep my comments to myself, didn’t I? So I will.” Said Ginny, shrugging again.

“It’s just- I mean- it doesn’t matter. I’m fine really, Gin,”

Hermione said nothing for a few minutes, and they sat in silence, looking around the tiny bedroom with all its quidditch posters and happily waving photos from before the war. It was strange, like sitting inside a time capsule.

“Hey, Ginny?”

“Yeah?”

“Oh fuck it,” she groaned, falling backwards onto the bed and staring up at the ceiling, “Maybe I do need to talk about it…”

“I mean, I said I wasn’t going to say anything, but-”

“It was obvious?”

“So obvious.”

“Fine, so it wasn’t a one-night-stand, not- not exactly,”

“I knew it!”

“Ginny, I absolutely cannot do this if you interrupt me. I’ll lose my nerve.”

“Ok, fine, go ahead.”

“It-it was supposed to be,” said Hermione, taking a deep breath. Where to start? What she needed was a placeholder; a believable but vague story that she could use to frame the main issues she was worried about without actually giving away the truth. She knew she shouldn’t lie, but she wasn’t ready to tell the whole truth, and she was sure that Ginny would forgive her given the circumstances. Then inspiration struck, and she launched into it before she could talk herself out of it. “He um, I knew him from school, you know, before Hogwarts. He recognised me at the bar, and at first I thought it was a rubbish line, you know? But-”

“One thing led to another,” said Ginny, cutting her off, “Yes, I can imagine.”

“Well, yeah. I mean, it’s not as if I’ll run into him at work or anything, so no pressure, no obligation there, but-” she trailed off, looking uncomfortably down at the bedspread.

“But?” Prompted Ginny after a few seconds of silence.

“But it’s- there was- there was… cuddling, Ginny, and it felt… nice.”

“Riiight,” she said slowly. Hermione waited several seconds for her to elaborate, and shook her head exasperatedly when she didn’t.

“That’s it? ‘Right’?”

“You said you didn’t want to be interrupted!” said Ginny, “Anyway, I’m not seeing the problem here, so you cuddled, it’s not exactly scandalous, Hermione.”

Hermione opened her mouth to say that she might not think so if she knew the whole story, but shut it quickly. She pinched the bridge of her nose and groaned.

“I don’t know, Ginny, we weren’t exactly friends, even back when we were kids. I don’t even know if I like him as person, let alone romantically…”

“So have coffee, right? Figure it out then. I know I’m out of practice, but isn’t that the whole point of dates?”

She hummed noncommittally and fiddled with her hair. Whatever else she was worried about, she absolutely was not ready to consider the possibility of dating Draco Malfoy. Come to that, she was pretty sure that Ginny would change her tune drastically if she knew the truth. Before the masquerade, she couldn’t even remember the last time they had discussed Malfoy, much less talked to him. These days the white-hot hatred that used to burn between their two camps had cooled to a begrudging acceptance of each other’s existence, especially since Stella had started seeing Theo, but she couldn’t say how well the truce would hold up if they actually had to socialise on a regular basis. She had a feeling that the uneasy balance only held up as well as it did because they were all able to keep their distance to an extent -until she and Draco had accidentally screwed it all up at the masquerade, of course.

“Hermione?”

“What? Oh, sorry, I was a million miles away.”

“Sure,” she said with an infuriatingly self-satisfied grin. “Whats this mystery man’s name then?”

“Oh, I don’t know Ginny, it’s-”

“Oh come on, if he’s a muggle, it’s not like I’m going to know him, is it?”

“O-kay,” she said slowly, getting the strong feeling that this was going to come back to bite her. Nothing to be done about it now though, she was in too deep. She sighed. “His name’s Oscar.”

“Oscar.” Said Ginny, “Oscar the muggle. Alright.”

“I’m probably just worrying about nothing,” she said, suddenly feeling her cheeks flush, “It’s fine. There’s no reason we’d run into each other again anyway,”

“Yes, well, I don’t mean to shit on your parade, but-”

“What?” spluttered Hermione, forgetting about her Malfoy-shaped woes for a moment.

“-but didn’t you leave your necklace there?”

“Ginny, do you mean _rain_ on my parade?”

Ginny said nothing for a beat.

“Is the meaning not exactly the same?” she said, folding her arms defensively, “My version’s just more… colourful.”

“It’s certainly an… image…” managed Hermione, trying very hard _not_ to imagine it.

“So-”

There was a knock at the door, and Harry came in without waiting for a reply.

“There you two are,” he said, leaning against the doorframe, “Your mum wants to know if you want tea. What are you doing holed up here anyway?”

“It’s none of your business,” said Ginny, sticking her tongue out at him.

“Well that’s not suspicious at all,” snorted Harry.

“Oh, you’re right, I’ll come clean. Harry, I’m leaving you, Hermione and I are running off together.”

“Ok,” said Hermione loudly, standing up, “I’ve got to go, I’ve got meetings all day tomorrow. Ginny, you’re a menace.”

“Well, that’s exactly what you _would_ say if you got caught trying to steal my girlfriend, Hermione,” said Harry, nudging her with his shoulder and grinning.

“I’ll see you two in the week then?” said Hermione, rolling her eyes and deciding not to acknowledge his comment.

“Sure, yeah.”

She said her goodbyes and took the floo home, and the moment she stepped out of her fireplace it was if she’d never left, as if she’d never distracted herself by throwing herself into the chaos of a Weasley family gathering. The distraction had worked for a time, but as she made herself a cup of tea, all she could think of was- she froze as something caught her eye across the room; another neatly folded piece of parchment wedged into the flowerbox outside her kitchen window, addressed to Lizzie. She forced herself not to smile like a lovestruck teenager as she opened the window retrieved the letter. It was shorter than the last one, just a few scrawled lines.

_Lizzie,_

_What a coincidence. On Tuesday I happen to be going to the very cafe where we once met to discuss the very family dynamics you so abhor. It would be terribly convenient if you happened to be getting lunch there as well at about 1pm._

_Oscar._

Hermione couldn’t help it; she _beamed_. Her week had suddenly become a lot more interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, it pains me to do yet another chapter with almost no D/H interaction, but I had already written the convo with Ginny and it didn't fit anywhere else.  
> OMG it just started snowing outside, it's a good omen. White Christmas (Eve)!  
> Happy Holidays and love to all you lovely people. xxx


	27. Tugging the Thread

It was Tuesday, and Hermione had been restless all morning. She’d never admit it to a living soul, but she spent several minutes when she’d got up today looking over her wardrobe, trying to pick something that was just nice enough that she would feel confident, but not fancy enough to look as if she was dressing up just for him. She’d eventually settled on a navy blue shift dress; it didn’t look like much on the hanger, but something in the tailoring meant that it was immensely flattering to her figure. It was one of her favourites, and she often picked it out when she was particularly nervous about an audience with the Wizengamot, and much as she hated, _hated_ to admit it, she was nervous.

All morning she had been repeating the same mantra over and over in her mind; _this is not a date, this is not a date_. She was going to sit down, get her necklace, possibly discuss briefly how they were going to proceed from now on, then she was going to go back to work and that would be that. To any onlookers it would just look like another business lunch. She wondered if he had business in the Ministry, or even in town, or if he really was just coming all the way into muggle London just to see her. She let out a huff of frustration as she mentally corrected herself; he wouldn’t be coming to see her, he was coming to return something she’d lost. Big difference. He was in the area anyway, he’d said so in the letter, and why would he bother lying about something so trivial? A small, unhelpful voice in the back of her mind told her that he might bother for the same reason she had agonised so much about picking exactly the right outfit that wouldn’t look like she was putting too much effort in.

Determined not to spend her _entire_ morning obsessing over this, she threw herself into her work, immersing herself in a particularly complicated policy amendment that had been the bane of her life for months and turned out to be extremely effective as a distraction. So effective in fact, that midday came and went, and it was ten to one by the time she glanced at the clock.

“Shit,” she hissed, standing up abruptly and sending a few papers fluttering to the floor. The last thing she needed right now was to be late…

She hurriedly packed up the papers, making a mental note of exactly where she had got to before shoving them haphazardly into her desk drawer. It was maybe a ten minute walk to the cafe, but that was assuming she didn’t get slowed down on the way by whatever unforeseen bureaucracy that was waiting for her between her office and the visitor’s entrance. He had only said ‘around 1’, so they hadn’t agreed on a specific time, but even so she felt like she was late, and she hated being late.

Hermione grabbed her bag, locked her office, mumbled something about getting lunch to the department receptionist and hurried towards the lifts. As she had expected, she was waylaid in the atrium by a colleague asking about the amendment, but she was able to brush him off fairly quickly, and before long she was stepping out of the visitors entrance into the bright sunlight of muggle London.

 _It’s not a date…_ she thought as she wove through the hordes of office workers on their way to lunch. It was just about one o’clock and she was on her way to a nice cafe just a few streets over from Whitehall, it was entirely possible they wouldn’t even be able to get a table, let alone have an actual conversation. He would just hand her the necklace, give her a tight nod and they would go their separate ways. Yes. Actually it was better this way, no opportunities for them to get off topic. Whenever they got off topic things always seemed to escalate, whether it was escalating towards a screaming row or… the other thing. Not that they would be doing that in a crowded muggle cafe, but still, better to keep things brief, no need to add even more complication to an already fraught situation. This line of reasoning would be much more compelling if she hadn’t known in her heart of hearts that she wouldn’t be doing this at all if she hadn’t _wanted_ to see him again, but for the moment it was a lie she wasn’t ready to let go of.

She rounded the corner and saw the cafe. As she had thought, it was very busy, but she didn’t see him waiting outside, so she moved closer, warily, as if she was some spooked animal. She frowned, frustrated that she was acting like this. What on earth did she have to be afraid of? Then she saw him through the large windows, sitting casually at a small table with a half-finished coffee and an open book as if he truly was in his element. The bastard.

As if he could hear her insulting him in her mind, he looked up, blinked, and then smiled. His smile took her by surprise, and for a split second she was frozen there in the middle of the street as the crowds moved around her like water. It took her a moment to figure out why she had been so taken aback by such a simple expression of recognition, but then she realised. The look on his face was so… genuine. For one second Draco Malfoy’s feelings had been displayed as clear as day on his face, and he was genuinely happy to see her.

Rather than ponder this new revelation, she raised a hand in a slightly awkward greeting and made her way inside the cafe. One she got past the counter, which was heaving with people in the chaos of the lunch rush, the rest of the cafe was actually much calmer. It was still busy, but it was obvious that the vast majority of patrons weren’t interested in a sit-down lunch, most of them clustered around the main counter while flustered baristas hurried to make their coffees and sandwiches. He rose to meet her, and as she approached the small, sunlit table she felt uncharacteristically ill-at-ease. Suddenly all of her mental protestations that this wasn’t a a date seemed flimsy and unconvincing. He was wearing a light, sage green shirt with the top button undone and the sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows, his hair looking windswept and almost glowing in the bright sunlight. He looked gorgeous.

“Hi, Malfoy,” she said when she reached the table, and already she was uncomfortable. Should it have been ‘Hi, Draco’? They had slept together, didn’t that mean they should at the very least be on a first name basis? It still felt weird though, and she couldn’t help but think that going straight into using his first name as if it was completely normal was somehow surrendering to the idea that this was definitely a date… Malfoy (or Draco?) seemed unfazed though, even as her mind careened through the maze of logic it had created.

“Granger,” he said with a small smile that effectively derailed her train of thought.

“Um,”

 _Damn it!_ She thought, _Great, very articulate, Hermione._

“Do you want-?” he gestured behind him to the table.

“Sure,” she nodded, stepping around him to take the seat on the opposite side. He sat down too, and there were a few seconds of tense silence.

“That dress is delicious, Granger.” He said in a low voice, grinning, “Did you wear it just for me?”

She glared at him, and her nervousness evaporated.

“Of course it’s not for you. I had a meeting with the Wizengamot,” she lied, folding her arms. “And it’s not delicious, it’s entirely office appropriate.”

“Oh, you don’t need to remind me how terribly important you are, Granger, I’m painfully aware,” he said dryly, the corner of his mouth tugging upwards, “And as for the dress, well, there’s something magical about a garment that is perfectly conservative and appropriate by every metric, yet provokes all manner of deeply _in_ appropriate thoughts- in me at least. It’s wasted on those dusty old windbags in the Wizengamot.”

“It’s not for them and it’s not for you.” She said tightly, unreasonably flustered by his blatant flirtation. “I like this dress. I wore it because I wanted to.”

“Fair enough,” he said with a shrug, though he still looked far too amused for Hermione’s liking. “I suppose I should just be grateful you deigned to fit me into your busy, busy schedule,”

“Oh, shut up,” she sighed, but without any real vitriol. Part of her was tempted just to demand he return her necklace and just made a hurried retreat to the safety of her office, but it was nice to be out of the Ministry, out in the world among people who didn’t know her whole life story, and now she was here, she realised that she actually was quite hungry. A waitress swept past their table with a tray of coffees and paninis, and the smell made Hermione’s mouth water, so she flagged the waitress down as she made her way back towards the bar and ordered herself a cappuccino.

“Another one of these for me as well,” said Malfoy,

“Sure, no problem,” muttered the waitress, scribbling on her notebook, “And will you be ordering food?”

“Oh, I-”

“Um- well, do you-?”

“I’m not-”

“I’ll give you a minute.” Said the waitress, plucking two cardboard menus from between the salt and pepper shakers and pointedly setting them down on the table before turning and hurrying back towards the bar.

“Have you already eaten?” asked Hermione after a small pause.

“No, I- no.”

“So-?”

He looked at her for a beat, then smiled, rolled his eyes and pushed one of the menus towards her.

“I’m overthinking this, aren’t I?” she murmured, as much to herself as to him.

“Hermione, I’m fairly sure the answer to that question is literally always ‘yes’.” He said, giving her a wry smile over the top of his menu, “Honestly, it’s a miracle you’re as sane as you are. Not that that’s really saying much…”

“You’re one to talk,” she laughed, swatting at him with her menu, “What sane person spends all that time and energy to torpedo their own birthday party?”

“I never claimed to be sane,” he scoffed, “As if you’d let me get away with it- what? Why are you looking at me like that, Granger?”

Hermione frowned. He had called her by her real name and she hadn’t even noticed. It was back to ‘Granger’ now, but just a few sentences ago he had called her ‘Hermione’, like Ron and Harry and her parents did, and he had done it so smoothly that it had felt like the most natural thing in the world. Had he even realised he had done it? Should she have gone with ‘Draco’ from the beginning?

“It’s nothing,” she muttered, frowning down at the menu. “Just overthinking again.”

“Hmm.”

He sounded sceptical, but said nothing more, and after a few minutes the waitress returned with their coffees.

“Alright, you were the cappuccino, weren’t you? Yep, and there’s yours,” she set down the two cups, and straightened up, notepad poised and ready, “And have you decided about food?”

They ordered sandwiches, but Hermione was barely paying attention. She stared unseeing at the menu, uncharacteristically unsure of herself.

“Can I ask you something, Granger?” he said, pulling her out of her daydream.

“Sure,” she muttered vaguely, still feeling a bit disorientated, as if she’d been dropped into a test she hadn’t revised for properly. Not that that had ever happened in real life, but even now she occasionally had stress dreams about it. She looked up and found him watching her curiously, his fingernails tapping on the edge of his coffee cup. He smiled slightly.

“Where’d you get ‘Lizzie’ from?”

Much to her dismay, she felt her cheeks heat even though it was an innocent enough question, and she picked up her cappuccino and blew on it to try and distract herself.

“Why do you want to know?” she asked with a small chuckle that was mostly an attempt to convince her body that this was all normal and fine and there was no reason to be as flustered as she felt.

“Just curious,” he said, shrugging. She rolled her eyes and blew on her coffee again.

“It- it’s a character from a book,” she said quietly.

“Quelle surprise,” he chuckled, his lip curling as he leant back and folded his arms. She pursed her lips and tried not to think about how that tiny snippet of french had rolled off his tongue like honey.

“Don’t be a twat, Malfoy,”

“Fine, fine,” he said, still smiling but holding his hands up in surrender. “Which book?”

“Why do you-?”

“God, you’re suspicious, Granger. I told you, I’m just curious.” She kept scowling at him, and his expression softened slightly. “Come on, Granger, what’s the harm? It wasn’t Hogwarts: A History’ was it?”

“You’re infuriating, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told,”

“Ugh, fine.” She sighed, her shoulders slumping in defeat. “It’s a muggle novel; Pride and Prejudice. Lizzie is the main character.”

“That rings a bell,” he said, taking a sip of coffee. She couldn’t help but notice his Adam’s apple bob in his throat as he swallowed, and she wondered if the lovebite she had left on his neck was still there under myriad concealment charms.

“I highly doubt that Jane Austen was part of your primary education, Malfoy,” she said, but before he could reply the waitress returned with their food, and there was a few seconds of bustling as they shuffled the plates around and thanked the waitress as she hurried away again. Hermione nibbled at the corner of her sandwich.

“Yeah, that definitely rings a bell,” he repeated, grinning triumphantly, “Lizzie… something…is the guy called Mr Darling or something?”

“I- it’s Mr Darcy...” Said Hermione, too stunned to be snarky. “Malfoy, how the hell-”

“Ok, you didn’t hear it from me, but- well, Pansy went through kind of a phase for a while at Hogwarts, it was a different one of those bloody books every week.”

Hermione balked, caught between discomfort at being found out and amusement at this new, unexpected piece of information.

“I- I’m sorry, I must have misheard you. It sounded like you just told me that Pansy- Pansy Parkinson- read nineteenth century muggle romance novels while we were at school.”

“Don’t tell anyone I told you,” he shrugged, sipping his coffee, “I was supposed to take that to the grave.”

“Your loyalty astounds me.”

“Pride and Prejudice…” he mused, ignoring her comment, “Wait-”

“What?” she asked suspiciously, sure that she was going to hate whatever he was about to say.

“Correct me if I’m wrong- and I know that muggle literature is certainly not my forte- but isn’t that about a woman who falls in love with a man she previously hated?”

“That- that is a _gross_ oversimplification,” she blustered, and now she knew that her face must look like a tomato. “How is that relevant anyway?”

“Not necessarily relevant,” he purred, “Just interesting, don’t you think?”

Oh, this was unfair, this was so unfair. This was supposed to be simple, she wasn’t supposed to be being held hostage by his stupid, smooth voice and his perfect hair, and his stupid… familiarity with muggle literature, apparently. God, she really, _really_ hadn’t expected that one. The image of Pansy curled up in the Slytherin dormitories with a dog-eared copy of Pride and Prejudice hidden under the covers was fantastic, but right now she was too preoccupied with the fact that Draco Malfoy had just heavily implied that he was the Darcy to her Lizzie. Part of her wanted to bury her head in the sand and just get out of this situation as quick as humanly possible, but something stopped her, something almost, but not quite like the madness had taken her over when she’d decided to throw caution to the wind at the masquerade.

“What are you saying, Malfoy?” she demanded, setting down her sandwich and forcing herself to hold eye contact even though she knew she was still blushing.

“I’m not saying anything-” he began, smirking, but Hermione was sick of all this blustering uncertainty. She wasn’t fourteen anymore.

“Yes you are, and I can’t be bothered to sift through all your bullshit, so what is it? Why-” she faltered, the uncertainty smothering her again. The question had died on her lips; _why are you flirting with me? Why does this feel like a date?_ She frowned and steeled herself, and opened her mouth to finish her question, but he cut her off, and when she met his eyes again she thought they looked a bit harder than before, a bit closer to how they had looked before all this… the eyes of a man all too used to assuming everyone around him was his enemy.

“My bullshit? You know, Granger, I’ve had just about enough of your bullshit.” He scoffed to himself bitterly and shook his head, looking away from her and staring unseeing out the window to the muggle street beyond. “I swear, sometimes it feels like I’m going to suffocate under the sheer weight of your fucking disapproval, and I get quite enough of that from my bloody parents.”

She blinked and frowned, then opened her mouth to retort, but shut it again. His tone had been one of lazy annoyance, but his words had a ring of truth to them. She had plenty of reasons to disapprove of him, but strangely, she found that despite her irritation at his smugness and their general bickering, she simply didn’t want to hate him anymore. She wasn’t really sure what to do with this realisation, so she just looked down at her half-eaten sandwich. Neither of them said anything for what felt like an hour.

“I didn’t mean to- that is, I wasn’t trying to- to disapprove,” she said quietly, “I-I just really hate uncertainty…”

“That doesn’t surprise me.” He grunted, still looking out the window.

“No, I suppose not.” She sighed. “Can I- can I ask you something?”

“Fine,”

“What do you _do_ all day? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of you having a job, and you clearly aren’t a fan of all the parties and- you know- hobnobbing, so-”

“That’s it?” he said with a chuckle, finally turning to meet her eyes. “I thought you were going to ask me something hideously personal, or something about the war, or at the very least ask where ‘Oscar’ comes from,”

“I actually do want to know that-” she began, but he cut her off.

“One thing at a time, Granger. Now, do you actually want to know about what I do with my time these days, or do you want me to tell you the mildly embarrassing origin story of my ah- _nom de guerre_?”

There was the french again. Hermione was quietly horrified by how much she enjoyed the sound of it.

“Well, I was torn until you said it was embarrassing, now I’m curious.”

“Well tough.” He said, “You asked about my day to day and that’s the answer you’re going to get.”

“What? That’s not fair. What possible reason could you have for not answering both questions?”

“Maybe I just like watching you get annoyed.”

Hermione huffed and folded her arms.

“Tease,” she muttered.

“I choose not to acknowledge that statement, because I have a feeling I’d be opening a can of extremely inappropriate worms.” He said with a salacious grin, and Hermione blushed, even as she scowled at him. He sighed and sat back in his chair, shrugging. “I don’t know what you want to hear, Granger, my life is really not all that interesting these days.”

“Apart from your spectacular wealth, of course,” she said dryly.

“Apart from that, of course. But- well, yeah, I never really saw the point of getting a job. Anyway, who in their right minds would hire me? History aside, I’ve been told I have a bad attitude.”

“I’m shocked.”

“As for what I do with my day to day,” he continued, ignoring her sarcasm, “I read, I see friends sometimes, I spend an inordinate amount of time managing my parents’ expectations of me, oh and obviously I’ve got to carve out a few hours every day for just brooding. Got to keep up appearances.”

Hermione laughed, and he smiled, a little crooked grin as if he was pleased with himself for getting a positive reaction from her.

“I actually did think of getting back into quidditch at one point,” he said, smile fading slightly, “But it just- I don’t know-”

“Life got in the way?”

“Something like that.” He murmured, “Plus, you know it would seriously cut into my brooding time.”

“Oh, sure.”

They were quiet for a moment, sipping their coffee contemplatively.

“That would drive me crazy,” said Hermione matter-of-factly, “Not having any projects or work to do,”

“Yes, I’m sure it would,” he said lightly, looking amused.

“I mean, all the stress isn’t ideal, but I think I’d lose my mind without at least some sort of schedule, some sort of framework.” She glanced down at her watch and nearly did a spit take. How was it possible that so much time had passed? “Shit… Speaking of-”

“Back to the grindstone is it? Say no more, Granger,”

“I’d better go, I lost track of time,” she muttered to herself, drinking the last of her coffee and grabbing her bag, “I’ve got so much to get done today…Is this- how much was it?”

“I’ve got this, Granger. Spectacularly wealthy, remember?”

“But-”

“I’ve got muggle cash,”

“You- _You_ have muggle cash?” she said disbelievingly.

“No need to be so bloody incredulous, Granger, how d’you think I managed to get a coffee before you got here?”

“But- Fine, fine.” Why did she feel like she was running away? She had a to-do list as long as her arm waiting for her back at her desk, it was only prudent. “I-I’d better go.”

“See you, Granger,” He stood up as she squeezed past the table towards the exit, and there was a split second in which they stood face to face, far too close. Close enough that she could smell the coffee on his breath, see a tiny patch of stubble he’d missed shaving on the underside of his jaw, and somehow this tiny imperfection was more endearing than any of the smiles or flirty compliments he had thrown her way. She felt him suck in a breath, and she took a step back, not meeting his eyes.

“Yeah. I- yeah. See you, Malfoy,”

“This was-”

She smiled, and he trailed off, giving her a small, lopsided grin.

“Yeah.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and practically ran back to the Ministry. It wasn’t until she had long since slammed her office door behind her, and she was halfway through the policy amendment she had started this morning, that she remembered why she had gone to meet him in the first place. This was supposed to be simple, him returning her necklace and nothing more, and instead she had sat down with him for nearly an hour in a pretty little muggle cafe and chatted and laughed, and she hadn't managed to do the one fucking thing she'd actually meant to do and get her damn necklace back. To anyone looking in from outside, it would have looked _exactly_ like a date.

Worse than that, it had felt exactly like a date, and for the life of her she couldn’t think of a single convincing reason why that was a bad thing.

“ _Shit_ ,” she hissed, with feeling. Things had just got a lot more complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This felt so weird to write, like, two people sitting and meeting in person in a busy cafe? What outlandish fantasy is this?  
> Still, I worked really hard on this chapter. It's one of those ones where i've edited and re-edited practically every sentence, trying to balance affection with just nerves and discomfort and old habits making them both act like idiots sometimes.  
> Also, if it seems like I'm always referencing Pride and Prejudice it's because it is basically the only classic I know, you caught me.  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy :)


	28. Tidbits and Puzzle Pieces

Ginny had as much animosity towards Malfoy as anyone else who had played quidditch against him, but she knew that it didn’t come close to the level of hatred that Harry and Ron still felt for him. They might not make a scene publicly anymore, even managed to give him a tight, begrudgingly polite nod if they happened to run into him, but Ginny knew that the rivalry that had begun before they had even got to Hogwarts still simmered beneath the surface. It had been ten years and even now she felt that the word ‘obsession’ was _only just_ an exaggeration- though that might possibly be just because of how much she enjoyed teasing Harry about it. She took the piss out of Ron too, but annoying Ron was a bit like shooting fish in a barrel, and so was far less satisfying. Before Stella started seeing Theo, Ginny could almost have happily forgotten the Malfoys existed, but now, as Stella regaled her with tales of the latest soiree at Malfoy Manor, she couldn’t help but listen in rapt fascination.

“-And apparently this was one of her smaller parties! Narcissa called it ‘a nice little gathering’.”

“You what?” Ginny snorted, “A nice little gathering with only half of the wizengamot and just a few reporters?”

“I know,” said Stella, shaking her head, “Theo’s got so used to it, I don’t think he sees how-”

“How absolutely bloody mental it is?”

“Well, yes,” she said reluctantly, sipping her tea.

Practice was over for the day, and since the weather was beautiful they wandered down to the village near the quidditch pitch and got their tea to go. Now they were sitting happily in a muggle park and chatting in the sunshine. Ginny liked Stella a lot, but she didn’t actually get very many opportunities to talk with her just the two of them. She loved her friends and she loved Harry, but she had to admit, it was a nice change of pace to discuss things like the Malfoys without the spectre of shared trauma hulking in the background of every conversation. Not that she _wanted_ to discuss the Malfoys, or even that they came up in conversation particularly often, but she couldn’t imagine having this particular discussion with Harry or Ron or even Hermione to an extent, without it becoming… heated. She supposed she had never had to deal with him being in every other class at Hogwarts though, and she’d never set foot in Malfoy Manor, so maybe she would never quite understand the way those three seemed to devolve into teenagers every time Malfoy came up.

“Oh, and poor Draco,” said Stella, “I’ve never seen someone look so miserable at their own birthday party,”

“Wait, it was his _birthday party_?” spluttered Ginny, momentarily distracted by the phrase; ‘poor Draco’.

“Yes, of course!”

“You never said,”

“Yes I- No, I must have done. You knew it was his birthday on our engagement party though-”

“No, I didn’t, why would I know that?” chuckled Ginny incredulously, “It’s not as if there was a cake and we all sung ‘happy birthday’- god, that would have been weird though... Why would Theo have his engagement party on his best friend’s birthday?”

“I know, that’s what I thought, but apparently Draco insisted; said he’d rather not have the attention.”

“We are talking about the same person, aren’t we?” scoffed Ginny, thinking of the impressive pantomime of squealing and writhing in pain Malfoy would do every time anyone so much as nudged him during a quidditch match at Hogwarts.

“Anyway, yes it was his birthday party,” said Stella, pointedly ignoring Ginny’s question. “But yeah, he wasn’t exactly happy about it. I know you’re not friends with him or anything-”

“Fucking understatement,” she muttered under her breath, then couldn’t help but wonder if to the outside observer she was actually just as bad as Harry where Malfoy was concerned… Thankfully, Stella had either failed to hear her comment or refused to acknowledge it, because she continued as if Ginny hadn’t spoken.

“-I mean I’m never quite sure whether he’s happy or not. I’m marrying his best friend and If I didn’t know better I would genuinely be unsure if he even liked me. I still feel weird saying he’s _my_ friend- and you know me,”

“Yep, you’re friends with _everyone_ ,”

“Exactly; well, I try anyway, and- I’ve lost my train of thought,”

“Er, you were saying how miserable Malfoy was?”

“Yes, thank you. Anyway, it was really obvious that his mother was trying to set him up with this woman, and Draco was _not_ having it.”

“What?” snorted Ginny, “That’s hilarious; poor little prince Draco. Why wasn’t he having it? Was she hideous?”

“No, of course not!” said Stella, “Well, she was a bit… pointy, but no, of course she wasn’t _hideous_ ,”

“Merlin, isn’t there enough ‘pointy’ in that family already?”

“Ginny,” said Stella warningly, although her smile said without a doubt that she agreed with Ginny’s assessment.

“You’re right, that was a cheap shot.” said Ginny, grinning, “I can do better, just give me a minute,”

“Be nice,” said Stella, nudging her with her elbow but still smiling.

“Oh alright,” sighed Ginny in faux resignation, “For you I’ll try.”

“I’m honoured,” said Stella, in a rare display of sarcasm. Ginny was almost proud. “Anyway, Theo thinks- this is just between us, right?”

“’Course,” she said with a shrug, “Who am I going to tell; Harry?”

“I suppose not,” said Stella, grinning and leaning in conspiratorially, “Ok, good. So Theo thinks Draco is seeing someone else, someone his mum doesn’t know about.”

“Ooh, drama at Malfoy Manor,” said Ginny, wiggling her eyebrows, “Colour me intrigued.”

Truth be told she couldn’t care less about Malfoy dating someone other than whoever his mother picked out for him, but she knew that even though she made friends easily, there weren’t actually many people that Stella felt comfortable gossipping with. Not that Ginny actually thought she would ever betray a confidence; Stella was far, far nicer than Ginny, and she was sure Stella would have been a Hufflepuff if she’d gone to Hogwarts instead of Beauxbatons, but apparently Ginny brought out a bit of a mischievous streak in her, because whenever they had lunch with just the two of them, she got the strong feeling that Stella had been saving up all the gossip and opinions that she hadn’t been able to voice to anyone else. Stella took an indulgent sip of her tea, smiling.

“Well, I don’t know for sure, but Theo seems to think he pulled someone the other night at our party- am I using that right? ‘Pulled someone’?”

“Um, just ‘pulled’ is fine.” Said Ginny, trying her very hardest not to smirk, “I mean, if you want to be more literal, sure, he could have pulled someone, but he’s straight as far as I know, and I suppose then it would be pulled someone _off_ -”

“Ok, now wish I hadn’t asked.”

“Actually, I think ‘pulled someone’ is fine too, now I think about it…”

“Ginny, please,”

“Sorry.”

“Can you not?”

“That’s fair. But -I mean, forgive me, I know you’re friends and all, but isn’t Malfoy a bit of a-” she stopped herself, as she was absolutely sure that Stella wouldn’t approve of her calling Malfoy a man-whore, “Isn’t him going home with a someone a- uh- _frequent occurrence_?”

“Well, you’re not wrong- I don’t _think_ you’re wrong, but we’re not exactly close, in truth I don’t actually know anything about his love life. I don’t even- stop distracting me, Ginny, the point is, Theo thinks that it’s more serious than a one-night thing. He’s really excited for him, it’s adorable.”

Ginny hummed noncommittally and took a large gulp of tea. She was cordial with Theo, maybe even on the way to being real friends one day, but that day was a long way off. She thought so at least. Then again, they were getting married, and Stella was a good friend, maybe that day was closer than she thought, but it didn’t mean she had to nod and agree with him being ‘adorable’.

“Maybe it’s Pansy, they were together before, weren’t they?” she offered.

“I doubt it,” said Stella, blowing on her tea, “She was at the party with someone else, and he didn’t seem too bothered. I don’t know, I just don’t think so somehow.”

Ginny hummed again, rapidly tiring of Malfoy’s love life as the topic of conversation.

“Yeah, it’s a mystery,” sighed Stella, “I almost wish I hadn’t drunk so much on Friday, I don’t even remember seeing him on the dancefloor. I might have seen him with whoever it was.”

“Maybe it was a muggle,” said Ginny, shrugging, “Merlin knows his mother wouldn’t like that.”

“You’re not wrong there,” said Stella darkly. Her sister had married a muggle, and Ginny knew that it had caused more than a few awkward conversations in the early days of she and Theo’s relationship, and she could imagine how the information would have been received by Mr and Mrs Malfoy. The war might be long over, but the ghosts of old prejudices still remained, scattered around the place where you might almost not notice if you weren’t looking. The fact that Theo and Stella were still together was the strongest argument she could think of that he at least had changed, but as far as Ginny was concerned, the jury was still out on the Malfoys. Sometimes she wondered if she and Harry had got into a bit of an echo chamber about that though, maybe she should try being less judgemental, take a page from Stella’s book.

“Thanks for listening to me,” said Stella, jerking Ginny out of her own thoughts, “I’ll admit I’m intrigued, but I know you’re not Draco’s biggest fan.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” said Ginny, smiling, “You’ve listened to me rant about Harry enough times, or my mum for that matter.”

“I hope you’re not implying that I don’t like Harry, and I’ve only met your mother once, but I thought she was lovely-”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” laughed Ginny, “Sorry, I just meant that it’s fine. We’re friends.”

“Good.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, and Ginny’s thoughts drifted to Hermione. She was far more interested in her love life, and she couldn’t help but wonder if she had managed to sort out whatever mess she had got herself into with this muggle guy. She’d have to make sure she came to tomorrow’s Wednesday night dinner, because to say she was unsatisfied with the way their conversation at the Burrow had ended was a colossal understatement. Ginny just _knew_ she was lying about something, she just wasn’t sure yet exactly which part of Hermione’s story was bogus. Hermione was the type to hide the big lie under a lot of small truths, so she was sure it wasn’t all bullshit, but damn it, she was obviously rattled about something, and Ginny had to admit; she was desperately curious. Although, Hermione, being who she was, it often didn’t take more than a few days of hardcore over-thinking to rattle her, maybe it was just that simple? Well, either way, Ginny’s curiosity had been piqued, and much like Theo, she was really excited that her friend had found someone-

Ginny froze.

Fragments of conversations replayed in her head from the last few weeks, tidbits and puzzle pieces that at the time seemed inconsequential, but now held new meaning.

_“Maybe it was a muggle, Merlin knows his mother wouldn’t like that…”_

_“I don’t know, Ginny, we weren’t exactly friends, even back when we were kids. I don’t even know if I like him as person, let alone romantically…”_

_“Theo thinks Draco is seeing someone else, someone his mum doesn’t know about,”_

No, no that couldn’t be right… Her brain was making connections where there weren’t any. There was such thing as coincidences, and no matter how far-fetched such a coincidence might be, it seemed far more likely than Hermione Granger- _her_ Hermione- doing _that_ … with _him_ …

“Ginny?”

“I-huh?”

“Are you alright? You were just staring forward without blinking for ages…”

Ginny shook her head distractedly and laughed, though it sounded forced even to her own ears.

“Yeah, yeah of course, I was just thinking about dinner tomorrow.”

“Yeah?” asked Stella suspiciously.

“Yeah, there’s at least three of my brothers coming, so we’ve got to make something big or there’ll be a riot,” she was talking too quickly, but her brain had started providing more memories to corroborate her theory, and she was trying hard not to freak out. The last thing anyone needed was her letting some half-baked theory slip out in front of Stella. Another memory floated to the surface of her mind.

_“…There was… cuddling, Ginny, and it felt… nice.”_

“Are you sure?” Asked Stella, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost-”

“Yes, I’m fine, I’m really fine,” she said, realising too late that her tone had been rather snappier than she had intended, “I’m sorry Stella, I didn’t mean to snap, it’s just- I just realised I’ve forgotten something I was supposed to do- just don’t worry about it, ok?”

“It’s nothing serious-?” said Stella immediately, concern radiating from her, and despite everything Ginny couldn’t help but smile to herself. Hufflepuff to her core, that one.

“No, no, of course not,” said Ginny. She tried to smile reassuringly, but unfortunately her brain chose that exact moment to remember that time weeks ago she had noticed Malfoy staring at them from the other end of the table in the pub, and her smile must have turned into a bit of a grimace, because Stella’s brow furrowed in worry. Ginny sighed. “Please don’t worry, Stella, it’s really nothing important.”

“If you’re sure…”

“Of course I’m sure!” said Ginny, forcing out another laugh that must have sounded a bit more normal, because Stella smiled back this time. “Anyway, before we got stuck on the Malfoys you were telling me about your sister. Do you think she’ll come and stay with you for a bit before the wedding then?”

Stella beamed and launched into an explanation of the complicated potential plans that she had spent the last week discussing with her sister. Normally apparating or portkeying over from France wouldn’t be a problem at all, but since Stella’s sister was married to a muggle, it made things a bit more difficult, and there was a great deal of bureaucracy to be navigated. Ginny suspected that before long Stella would be enlisting Hermione’s help again with navigating Ministry red tape. And just like that Ginny’s mind was away again, dissecting her recent conversations with Hermione for any trace of a clue that would disprove the deeply disturbing theory that she might be having some sort of- of . She mentally dragged herself back to the present and tried to focus on Stella’s words.

An hour or so later, Ginny said her goodbyes and apparated back to Grimmauld Place, which thankfully was empty. She hadn’t been expecting Harry back until later this evening, but on the off chance he had come home early she just knew she would have spilled her guts, and the fallout of that would have probably been catastrophic. She mentally shook herself. She didn’t even know anything anyway, she just had a few coincidences - most of which were based on second-hand information- and a handful of vague memories that sort of lined up with the theory. It was nothing, it was almost certainly nothing. She was being ridiculous, and Hermione would probably be as offended as Ginny was horrified if she heard what she was thinking. Still, Ginny knew that she wouldn’t be comfortable until she knew for sure. She’d make sure she came to dinner tomorrow and gently, _subtly_ ask her something innocent, not in front of the boys either, this was delicate, and she had to be careful.

Ginny glanced at the clock and sighed. It was 4pm. She just had to stop herself from freaking out until she could speak to Hermione. She just had to distract herself for- she looked at the clock again- 26 hours until Hermione would be here, and she didn’t even have practice tomorrow to distract her. She sighed again. Patience had never been her strong suit. She was going to lose her mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon; gossip is Ginny's guilty pleasure. Even as she tells herself she doesn't care about Malfoy's love life or other silly gossip, she's still kind of wants to know, not that she'd ever admit this to Harry. Her brothers all know this about her.


	29. Nom de Guerre

It was Wednesday, and Hermione had heard nothing from Malfoy since yesterday, so she had been particularly grateful for Harry and Ginny’s weekly meal. Frankly, by the time she had finished her workday she would have given her right arm to get out of her head for a few hours. It was one of the busier gatherings, which suited Hermione just fine; as far as she was concerned, the more distractions the better to drag her mind from the niggling memories of the not-date.

Dinner was finished, and they had moved a while ago into the living room to chat. Hermione was having a companionable moan about Ministry bureaucracy with Percy, when there was a sharp tap at the window behind her. She twisted around to see a large eagle owl staring down at her imperiously. It looked familiar, but there were only so many varieties of owls commonly used in wizarding Britain, and one eagle owl generally looked much like another.

“Speak of the devil,” said Percy wearily, “That’s probably for me from work.”

“Come on, Perce, said Ginny, rolling her eyes as she sat down with a beer, “Don’t bring the office here. It’s past eight for heavens sake, not to mention that’s your fourth beer-”

“I know, I know, but it’ll be more trouble than it’s worth to ignore it, believe me. Sorry, Hermione,” he stood up and leaned past Hermione to open the window behind her. The owl hopped onto the windowsill and let Percy remove the letter from its leg, then immediately ruffled its feathers and flew off into the night. “I keep telling them that- oh, this isn’t mine.”

“Whose is it?” asked Ron, smothering a yawn.

“I think it’s a mistake,” said Percy, frowning, “It just says ‘Lizzie’, no address or anything…”

Hermione froze.

“Probably should just send it off to the central Post Office then, since the original owl’s just flown off,” said Harry.

“Yes, you’re right. Can I borrow your owl-?”

“No, wait,” said Hermione, her cheeks burning. “I-I think it’s mine.”

The room went silent, and Hermione could do nothing but laugh nervously as four Weasleys, a Potter and a Longbottom all swivelled to stare at her. God, how had she got caught up in this mess? Ginny’s eyes were like laser beams. When did everything get so bloody, bloody complicated?

“Um, it’s a long story, ok?” she said quickly, snatching the letter from Percy’s hand. “It’s not a big deal, the owl’s probably just smart enough to know I’m not home, and…” she trailed off under the force of the expressions of shock and utter confusion that surrounded here. She shoved the letter into her bag.

“Alright, everyone, show’s over,” said Ginny, standing up and clapping her hands together, “Who wants another drink?”

“I’m good,” said Harry vaguely, who was still looking at Hermione as if she had grown an extra head.

“Yeah,” said Ron, looking equally curious, “Me too,”

“Fine,” said Ginny, rolling her eyes and looking deeply frustrated at the boys’ utter refusal to read the room, “Fine, just-”

“I’d better get going anyway,” said Hermione, giving Ginny a look she hoped showed exactly how stupidly grateful she was for her intervention, “I’ve got-”

“Reading to catch up on?” asked Ginny innocently, and Hermione glared at her, gratitude rapidly disappearing. George snickered into his beer.

“Something like that,” she said tightly, feeling that at this point pretending otherwise was not only futile but even more suspicious. “I’ll just go and-”

“I’ll go with you,” said Ginny, standing up quickly and grabbing her elbow to steer her out of the room.

“Traitor,” hissed Hermione as they stepped into the hallway.

“I choose to ignore that comment, since I know you’re all flustered and blushing. Anyway, I got everyone to stop staring… sort of… what more do you want from me?”

“Please, please just let it go, Ginny.” Hermione begged, trying desperately to keep her voice down so it didn’t carry back into the crowded living room, “Last week you said-”

“Ah, so it _does_ have something to do with last week,”

“Oh for- Ginny, come on. Don’t act like there’s some great mystery here-”

“No mystery? So you’re not getting mysterious mail from mysterious men under a mysterious assumed name?”

“Not _men_ , Ginny. _A_ man.”

“I knew it.” She said simply, folding her arms and looking triumphant.

“I- look, it’s just a long story that I’m not ready to tell yet, ok?”

“Did you get your necklace back?”

“I-no.”

“Does the envelope have your necklace in it?”

“I don’t know.” She said carefully, glancing down at the envelope. It looked innocuous enough, and it didn’t feel as though it contained anything but paper. “I don’t think so.”

“Oho, this story is going to be _good_ ,” said Ginny.

 _You have no idea_ _…_ Thought Hermione.

“I should go, Ginny,” she said, unable to keep a note of pleading from her voice.

“Oh alright, I’ll take pity on you, but let me just say one thing;”

“Fine,” sighed Hermione, and Ginny put her hands on her hips, watching her shrewdly. She was smiling, but when she spoke her tone was one of grim determination.

“I highly doubt that your ‘Oscar the muggle’, is sending you owl post-”

 _Shit_.

“-and the fact that the he’s not using _your_ real name makes me think that he’s not ‘Oscar’ the wizard, any more than you’re ‘Lizzie’ the witch.”

There was a weighty pause.

“That’s two things,” said Hermione weakly.

“Don’t change the subject.”

“Ginny…” she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose and wishing she had simply disapparated the second she got her hands on the letter. God help Harry if he ever tried to hide anything from this maddening woman.

“Did this whole thing start at the masquerade?” asked Ginny abruptly.

“What?!” squeaked Hermione before she could temper her reaction into something less glaringly guilty.

“Yeah,” sighed Ginny resignedly. “Oh don’t look at me like that, I’m not psychic. The timing just fits. Plus it makes sense with all of this sneaky, no-real-names nonsense.”

“But-”

“And that means it’s most likely someone we know- or at least someone we’ve heard of-”

“Ginny, stop.”

“And _that_ means-”

“Ginny, just let me get my head round this before you make me spill my guts, ok?”

Ginny scrutinised her for a long moment, and Hermione forced herself to hold her gaze. The conversation had started back up in the living room, but it was quiet here in the hallway, George’s booming laugh seeming strangely far away, and for a second Hermione felt like she could have been transported back in time, to Grimmauld Place the way it had been during the war; drab and cold and full of dark secrets. Nowadays though, Mrs Black’s portrait was long gone, and the house was the same in name only, since Harry had finally managed (with the help of the Auror Office and half of the remaining Order of the Phoenix) to completely gut the interior and make the place into a real home. The sheer quantity of protective enchantments around the place though… she was half surprised Malfoy’s owl had even managed to get here.

“I- I should go, Ginny,” she said softly, finally breaking eye contact and turning to leave.

“It’s Malfoy, isn’t it.” She said, so quiet that Hermione almost didn’t hear. She did hear though, and she couldn’t help but meet Ginny’s piercing gaze.

Hermione didn’t reply immediately, because her brain and most of her muscles seemed to have simply stopped working out of utter shock.

“What?” she choked out, but her reply was a beat too late, and she knew it. She could already see the terrible resignation in Ginny’s eyes.

Then, before Hermione could even formulate a proper response, Ginny had grabbed her arm and apparated them both away. It took Hermione a moment to get her bearings, but she recognised the pale blue wallpaper of the guest bedroom and realised that Ginny had transported them a mere 10 metres or so upwards to the top of the house, just far enough that the boys wouldn’t be able to overhear them. Ginny rounded on her.

“What the fuck, Hermione?”

Hermione opened her mouth, then shut it again when a decent response failed to present itself. She finally dragged her eyes up from her shoes to look at Ginny, and saw that she was glaring at her, hands on her hips, and Hermione knew that if her hair hadn’t been pulled up into a high ponytail it would be floating around her face as if she was literally alight with rage. And just like that, Hermione was angry too.

“What the fuck _Hermione_?” repeated Hermione, taking a step towards Ginny, “What about; what the fuck _Ginny_? Did it ever occur to you that I didn’t say anything to you because I wasn’t _ready_ to? Because it’s my own private fucking business? And let’s just ignore the fact that apparating us up here without even asking me is just incredibly rude-”

“ _Rude?_ ” exclaimed Ginny, her eyes wide, “You’re _fucking Malfoy,_ and you want to talk about my _rudeness?!_ _”_

“I don’t want to talk about it at all! For once in your life, Ginny, couldn’t you just leave it _alone?_ _”_

 _“_ I- you- This is not how I wanted this to go!” shouted Ginny.

“Well… me neither!”

They both stared at each other for a moment, but Hermione had never had the same stamina for arguments that Ginny did. She sighed and felt her shoulders slump as her brief rage evaporated into tiredness. Ginny regarded her suspiciously for a moment, but then she sighed and dropped down onto the guest bed, patting the spot next to her in an invitation, which Hermione took.

“How- how did you know?” she asked after a tense few moments. Ginny sighed heavily.

“Well, I didn’t _know_ ,” she said flatly, “I didn’t even suspect until I was talking to Stella and…it suddenly seemed like there was one too many coincidences.”

“What did Stella say?” asked Hermione sharply.

“Oh don’t get your knickers in a twist,” sighed Ginny, rolling her eyes, “Stella doesn’t know- not about you anyway. Her and Theo know Draco got laid the other night at their party. What _I_ knew was that so did you.”

“Oh,” said Hermione, very quietly.

“Honestly, even then I didn’t twig until I really sat and thought about it. I must be losing my touch.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” muttered Hermione a tad bitterly. Ginny sighed again.

“What the _fuck_ , Hermione?” she said, but this time there was no outrage in her tone, she just sounded tired.

“It- it was an accident,” she managed.

“The masquerade?”

Hermione nodded, then huffed exasperatedly.

“Ugh, if it had all gone right I’d never even had _known_ it was him. It wasn’t supposed to- and it was his fucking fault, you know. If he hadn’t bloody finite incantatum-ed all the disguises away and-”

“Whoa whoa, slow down, I’m behind on all of this, remember?” said Ginny, holding her hands up as she cut Hermione’s rant short, “Now, first things first. Are you honestly telling me that you- Hermione Granger- had actual sex with a man who you didn’t even- you _thought_ you didn’t know in the middle of a crowded party?”

“I- what? No, of course not!” she sniffed, “Don’t you think you’d have noticed someone just- just going at it in the middle of the ballroom?”

“You know what I mean,” said Ginny, raising an eyebrow and looking almost amused for the first time since this hideous conversation had started.

“I- well anyway, it wasn’t _actual_ sex…” she said, her cheeks blazing, “Not technically,”

“Ah, of course, well if it wasn’t _technically_ -”

“Oh shut up, Ginny,”

“Ok, so the other night,” Ginny was smirking now, and Hermione glared at her, even though she was still mortified, “The other night, was that- you know- _technically_ -”

“Oh my god- yes, fine, the other night we had actual, technical sex, are you happy now?”

“No, of course I’m not bloody happy!” she snorted, now seeming like she couldn’t decided whether she was amused or scandalised, “Fuck, I wasn’t this weirded out when it was my _brother_ that you were-”

“Please, Ginny, I beg you. Do not finish that sentence.”

“Fine.”

“Any more questions?” asked Hermione with a brittle, falsely bright smile. She had been hoping that the sheer unrelenting awkwardness of the situation might put a stop to the conversation, but unfortunately Ginny called her bluff.

“Yes. Ok, not important but I’m curious; did you know it was his birthday?”

“Um, yes?”

“Did you just remember from school or something?”

“No, I- I might have um, helped him out with some-some of the permitsandstuffforhisparty…” she trailed off, and Ginny frowned.

“You- you helped _Draco Malfoy_ plan his birthday party?” she said flatly, as if she truly couldn’t believe the words coming out of her mouth, as if this more than anything else was the part she was really struggling to get her head round.

“No, no, it- well, it was the one at Malfoy Manor, not Theo’s thing- and it wasn’t planning, it was really kind of the opposite, it- it’s a long story, ok?”

“I fucking bet it is…” muttered Ginny. “Fine, ok, question number two; also not really important but humour me.”

“Fine,” said Hermione through gritted teeth.

“Did you ever have a crush on him at school?”

“What?” she squeaked, “No! I hated his guts, you know that,”

“Ahah, but that doesn’t mean you weren’t _attracted_ to-”

“No, Ginny, I think in this case it really is that simple. It might be complicated as hell now, but back then I really did just hate his guts.”

“Fair.” Said Ginny, shrugging.

Hermione grunted in approval, but in the seedy recesses of her mind a small voice reminded her that while it might have been that simple for her, the same might not have been true for him. He had practically told her as much when he’d admitted to wanking over her…

“Ok,” said Ginny, and Hermione was internally quite grateful that she put a stop to that particular train of thought, “Real talk now.”

“What does that mean?” asked Hermione slowly, her gratitude rapidly fading.

“How many times?”

“H-how many times-?”

“You know what I mean, Hermione, don’t make me spell it out,”

“Ugh, fine. Well, if you count the masquerade-”

“Which I do,”

“-Then it’d be two,”

“Right. Fine. And- fuck, I’m going to regret this- it was… good?”

 _Fuck yes it was good_ , thought Hermione as unbidden, a surge of memories flooded her mind. The low husk of his voice in her ear, telling her how he wanted to make her scream, his lips on her neck, the scrape of teeth as he kissed down her torso until his head was between her legs-

“Never mind.” Sighed Ginny, looking deeply uncomfortable, “Your fucking cheeks just answered that question for me.”

“Oh god…” groaned Hermione, looking away in embarrassment.

“Fine. Fine. Let me recap so I’ve got this straight. You hooked up at the masquerade when you didn’t know who he was, until you did find out, and I assume that was just, like, mind-blowingly awkward-”

“Understatement…”

“Yeah. So you go your separate ways until you run into each other again and for whatever reason you decide to help him out with his fucking birthday party-”

“Again, it wasn’t helping as much as-”

“Don’t interrupt.” Said Ginny firmly.

Hermione scowled and folded her arms, suspecting that Ginny’s ‘firm’ voice might in fact be a subtle impression of _her_. Ginny ignored her.

“Then you hook up _again_ at Stella’s party, spend the night and stagger home only to find yours truly sitting in your kitchen. The next day you come to Sunday lunch and spin me some moderately convincing bullshit about meeting a muggle at the party, you figure out you left your necklace at his house, and here we are. Is that right? Am I caught up?”

“Well, um, we actually met yesterday,” she said in a very small voice, “I was supposed to get my necklace back, you know? But-”

“You were _supposed_ to?” exclaimed Ginny exasperatedly, “You mean you didn’t actually do it?”

“I know, I know,” she moaned, pinching the bridge of her nose, “It was so bloody stupid, I just- I just kind of lost track of time and he kept distracting me- it doesn’t matter. I’m surprised he didn’t just send the necklace with the letter.”

“Oh god, I had almost forgotten about the letter,”

Hermione turned the innocuous little envelope over in her hands. Truth be told she had almost forgotten about it too, distracted by all the shock and drama of Ginny finding out her dirty little secret. Since she was pretty sure it didn’t contain her necklace, the next most likely possibility was that it held details for another meeting or a way for him to drop it off somewhere and finally get this strange thing between them over and resolved. The thought made her feel strangely sad. For better or worse, it had been so much _fun_.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, just read the bloody thing, I can tell you’re dying to.” Said Ginny, seemingly reading her mind.

“You don’t mind-?”

“Hermione, my brain is broken. Take a few minutes to read your bloody letter while I try to put it back together, yeah?”

“You’re sure-?”

“Yes I’m sure. But this isn’t over, alright?”

But Hermione had already started opening the envelope before she’d even finished the word ‘sure’. Ginny huffed in annoyance, but Hermione barely heard it. There weren’t any names on this one, he just launched straight into it.

_I_ _’ve got a confession to make. It’s probably a terrible idea, but that’s nothing new with us, is it? I didn’t forget to return your necklace. I kept waiting for you to ask, and you didn’t, and somehow each minute that went by made it harder to interrupt. After you left, I sat in that cafe for half an hour watching my coffee get cold and trying to figure out why both of us managed to fail at such an excruciatingly simple task. Of course, I assume that being stressed to breaking point is your default setting, so I can believe that it might simply have slipped your mind, but as I sat there I knew that it hadn’t slipped_ my _mind; I had made a choice. I could have shoved the damn thing at you as you left, I could have just owled it to you in the first place, but I didn_ _’t. I’ll spare you my tedious internal monologue, but the conclusion was this: I actually enjoyed spending time with you._

_I know, I was shocked too. I think the waitress thought I was having a stroke - but I digress._

_As absurd as it may seem, sitting and chatting with you yesterday was_ _… freeing. For a short time I felt as if there wasn’t anything expected of me, as if nothing was hanging over me. That is not something I feel often, and I never expected it to come from you especially given our history. This isn’t me declaring my undying love for you or anything, I’m just trying for once in my life to make things as straightforward as possible. That is to say, I enjoyed spending time with you, and would like to do so again._

_Think about it. The ball_ _’s in your court._

Hermione frowned, then smiled slightly, then frowned again. Whatever she had expected, it hadn’t been that. She felt a surge of giddy excitement, and for a moment she almost laughed, but the sensation faded as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a restive sort of nervousness. She read over the letter again, and found that a second reading only made her confusion worse. It wasn’t that she didn’t understand what he had written, but she had absolutely no idea how she felt about it- or even how she _wanted_ to feel about it.

“What?” asked Ginny, looking concerned, but Hermione said nothing.

For once in her life she really, truly had no idea what to say.

She stared at the page until the words blurred and Ginny gently took it from her unprotesting fingers. Somewhere in the back of her mind she thought to tell Ginny not to read it, but by the time her consciousness returned to the present Ginny was already staring down at the page in abject shock and horror. Neither of them said anything for several seconds, but it was Ginny who broke the silence.

“Hermione, that- that is a fucking love letter.”

“What? No, don’t-”

“That is a love letter,” she said, prodding at it with an expression on her face as if it were an unexploded bomb, “I mean, it’s weirdly formal and mildly insulting in places… but actually sort of sweet in other places, and if I didn’t know who it was from I would tell you to apparate over there right now and-”

“No,” said Hermione, a thread of panic in her voice now, “No, look, he _specifically_ says here that he’s _not_ declaring his love-”

“I’m not saying he’s _in_ love with you,” said Ginny, “Proper, full-on love isn’t required for it to be a love _letter._ Calm down.”

“Oh, ok, good-”

“But- well, at the risk of sounding like a teenager; he _likes_ you, Hermione. He is asking you out. Shit… this is weird. I’ve gotta say, I didn’t think the little ferret had it in him to be so forthright.”

“Ginny,” said Hermione weakly.

“Oh don’t tell me that I can’t insult him now that he’s your-”

“He’s not my anything!” Hermione squeaked, her voice cranking up an octave as she fought to control the tsunami of emotion welling up in her throat. “Ginny, what the fuck do I _do_? God, how did I get here? What a mess- I- I’ve got to-”

“Hermione,” said Ginny firmly, shuffling over so that she could gently grab her shoulders, “Hermione, calm down. This is not a life and death situation. Everything will be fine.”

Hermione took a few deep breaths and tried to focus on the pattern of the bedspread, and when Ginny spoke again, her voice was quiet and much gentler than before.

“Hermione, what do _you_ want to do?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered, but that was a lie. The silly, uncontrollable joy that had bubbled up in her chest as she’d read his words was something even her anxiety and over-analysing couldn’t obscure, but nothing was ever that simple, no matter how much she might want it to be. She knew what she wanted to do, she just had absolutely no idea whether it was prudent or even possible.

“It’s not as if he’s proposed to you,” said Ginny softly, apparently sensing her unease, “Going for coffee isn’t going to suddenly change your life. Baby steps, right?”

Hermione just hummed noncommittally, chewing her lip nervously. Ginny’s words made sense… but then why did she feel as though she was standing on the edge of a precipice, looking down into a bottomless abyss of uncertainty?

“That is- if you even want to-?” asked Ginny carefully, “I mean, to his credit he’s made it clear there’s no pressure-”

“Yeah, but it’s- it’s _Malfoy_ , Ginny. No pressure right now, but what happens if people find out? What happens if his parents- oh fuck, what the fuck happens when _Harry_ finds out?”

“Yeah, Harry is going to be a hard sell, not going to lie.”

“Oh god…”

“I mean, that’s not to say that _I_ _’m_ sold on all this madness, but- ah fuck, I don’t know. When I woke up this morning I was determined that there was no way it could even _be_ Malfoy, then when it was obvious that it was him I was angry and confused… but then…” she trailed off.

“Then what?”

Ginny regarded her curiously for a few seconds, as if she was trying to decide something, but then she sighed and gave Hermione a tiny, reluctantly affectionate smile.

“Then I saw your face when you read that letter, before you started over-thinking and now- now I don’t know.” She sighed and shrugged. “I can only hope that he’s a different person than I remember, because I can’t imagine you having such godawful taste.”

“I- thank you?”

“Look, in general I trust your judgement, but-”

“Yeah, I know, he’s a twat.”

“Oh thank god, I didn’t want to be the one that said it…”

“No, he’s still a twat, he’s just- I don’t think he’s a _bigoted_ twat anymore.” She thought about the look on his face when he saw her the other day through the window of a muggle cafe, and shook her head, trying not to smile. “No, I know he doesn’t believe that shit anymore. I just- I know, ok?”

“Well fuck,” said Ginny after a small pause, “There’s something I never thought I’d hear you say. Fine. I don’t like him, I don’t trust him, but I trust you. If you want to go for coffee, go for coffee,”

Hermione blinked at her for a second, suddenly overwhelmed with affection for for this pushy, infuriating, but impossibly loyal and compassionate woman.

“Seriously?” she whispered.

“Sure.” She said with another shrug, “It’s not like you’re marrying the guy. I’ll even keep quiet about it-”

“ _Seriously?_ _”_

“-But only on the condition that you tell me everything- doesn’t have to be now, but-”

“Deal,” said Hermione, smiling warmly. “You- you’re a good friend, Ginny.”

“I know.” She sniffed, pushing her hair over her shoulder. “Just don’t forget that I’m doing this for you, not him.”

“Something tells me that you’ll make sure I don’t…” muttered Hermione.

“You are correct there,” said Ginny unconcernedly. She sighed heavily and clapped her hands down on her knees. “Right. If I didn’t need another drink before, I damn well do now. I’m heading back downstairs, and if I were you I would use this opportunity to escape while you can.”

“You’re right,”

“Of course I’m right.”

And with that, Ginny got up, gave Hermione a tight, one armed hug and disappeared back out through the door, leaving Hermione alone to stare down at the letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's aalll coming out now.  
> Fluff incoming, you guys.


	30. No Rest for the Wicked

Draco paced his living room. When he’d sent the letter to Granger he had been so sure, so very confident that this was the right thing to do, but that was hours ago, and now he was having second thoughts. If his owl hadn’t returned a few hours ago empty handed- well, empty taloned- then he might have just thought the letter never made it to her, but Anthe was a smart owl, and he knew that she wouldn’t have come back if she hadn’t successfully delivered it. So that was it, it seemed; she’d got the letter, she just hadn’t seen fit to reply, and he couldn’t blame her. He’d sent it off quickly, probably too quickly, but he’d been concerned that he’d lose his nerve, and now as the clock trudged closer to midnight he was realising exactly how stupid that had been.

What was he _thinking_? Each sentence was more tragic than the last… if it wasn’t humiliatingly sincere, then it was borderline insulting. Why on earth had he stressed how shocked he had been to realise that he had enjoyed her company? Sure, it was in line with their general banter and bickering, and Merlin knew it was true, but it wasn’t exactly flattering, was it? He’d started out with the intention of being as painfully candid as possible so there was no way she would think he was mocking or manipulating her somehow, and evidently that had got lost somewhere along the way. Stupid man. He should never have even _mentioned_ the ‘L’ word, why on earth would he bring that into the mix when he knew that even if the situation was wildly different, if they were just two people with none of their history, he _still_ shouldn’t have brought it up only to emphatically deny it. There were too many uncertainties to put such grandiose labels on it, surely she would understand that? He wasn’t in love with her, truth be told he wasn’t sure he’d ever even been in love before, but this was too new for that. He’d only said what he was sure of- at least, what he had thought he was sure of at the time.

He’d been sitting in that cafe after she’d left, trying to figure out what it was that felt so strangely off-kilter, when it had hit him; he never felt like this during the day. He had always been a night owl, his friends knew this about him, but no one knew the real reason he so often stayed up until the early hours. There was a point, a moment in the dark of night when he realised that no one was going to call, no one was asking him for anything and no one was judging his actions. No tasks, no duty, no shame. Sometimes it lasted only a few minutes, sometimes just long enough for him to get to sleep without tossing and turning for hours, replaying every despicable sin he’d committed like an endless newsreel in his mind. Yesterday at the cafe it had come and gone several times, but he knew he’d felt it, and deep inside himself he knew that it was her presence that had caused it. No matter how baffling or unlikely it might seem, as he’d sat and talked and laughed with Hermione Granger, he had felt _calm_.

He groaned loudly and dropped down onto the sofa, rubbing his eyes tiredly as he stared unseeing into the dying fire. Something told him he wasn’t going to get any rest tonight. He got up and stomped over to the kitchen to get a drink, swearing under his breath at nothing in particular. Maybe if he got drunk enough he could simply forget exactly what he’d written. It would just be another embarrassing mistake after one too many. He already knew that the next time he saw her he would be enthusiastically trying to convince her that he had been completely wankered when he’d written that letter, so he may as well make his story as realistic as possible. He poured himself a large slosh of whiskey and knocked it back without ceremony. He swore at nothing in particular and stared into the middle distance for a few seconds, then picked up the bottle to refill his glass-

“Malfoy! Are you here?”

Draco jumped so violently that he nearly dropped the bottle, perilously close to spilling its nauseatingly expensive contents over his kitchen floor. Instead, he placed it with exaggerated gentleness back on the counter, clutching his chest and willing his heart to slow down. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been screeched at like that by someone that wasn’t his mother. So much for peaceful drunkenness. How was it even possible that this infuriating woman had made him feel _calm_?

“There you are,” she said, appearing at the kitchen doorway with her hands on her hips, looking tempestuous. Fuck, but she was gorgeous…

“Granger, what-?”

“We-we need to talk.”

“Wait, what-”

“Sit down.” She said, pointing imperiously at the kitchen table. He watched in sluggish disbelief as she strode across the room and took the seat opposite him, steepling her fingers in front of her as if they were having a meeting in her office, as if he was wearing more than just a pair of pyjama bottoms. He gaped at her as his brain began to gear up again. It was barely a minute since he had been desperate for her to respond, but this was not what he’d had in mind.

“What- I don’t- Granger, what the actual fuck are you doing here?”

“I-”

“No, wait, how did you even get in here? I have wards up-”

“I-I didn’t apparate, I took the floo.”

Oh shit, he’d forgotten to lock the floo again. It was a miracle no one had murdered him in his sleep already. In the back of his mind he wondered how she had even knew where to come, since he’d apparated them here last time, but he decided that actually, he didn’t want to know.

“Oh,” he said, a bit lamely. He turned around to pour himself a much needed drink, then inclined the bottle in her direction as an afterthought. She shook her head, not meeting his eyes, and if he didn’t know better, he might have thought she had only just realised that he was shirtless. He grinned to himself.

“No, I-I shouldn’t,” she said, a dusting of pink on her cheeks now, “I’ve got work tomorrow.”

“What, pray tell, are you doing here at this unholy hour then?” He snorted, glass in hand as he leaned with forced nonchalance against the counter. He refused to sit down. He wasn’t going to be ordered around in his own kitchen.

“I told you,” she sniffed, folding her arms haughtily, “We need to talk.”

He stared at her for a moment out of sheer disbelief, but then she shifted in her seat, and something in her demeanour told him that she knew she shouldn’t be here, that she’d come here against her better judgement. He took a sip of whiskey and gave her a small smile, regarding her with as much disarming intensity as he could muster. Oh, she wanted to talk, did she?

“So you came here, to my house in _person,_ in the middle of the night- on a _school_ night, Granger?”

To his satisfaction, she slowly narrowed her eyes at him, as if she was imagining all the different hexes she could unleash on him. It might have been petty- ok, he _knew_ it was petty- but god it was fun to rile her up. Right now, though, it was probably counterproductive, so he forced himself not to smirk. Well, he tried, anyway.

“Oh, stop smirking at me, will you?” she snapped, “Why do you have to make everything so- so difficult?”

He hung his head, looking down at his bare feet as a tide of guilt washed over him, effectively drowning his moment of triumph. He didn’t answer her, he couldn’t.

This was half of the bloody problem with Granger; when she wasn’t causing that strange, almost ineffable sense of serenity, she, like no one else he knew inspired a profound sense of shame in him, and even his spiteful glee at successfully annoying her reminded him all too much of his old, despicable self. Suddenly, he was very aware that his entire torso was on show for her, including his faded, but still very noticeable dark mark. Usually, he either wore long sleeves or concealed it using magic, he’d certainly made sure that it hadn’t been visible when he’d seen Granger recently, until now anyway. He tried to subtly shift so that his inner arm was hidden, but when he looked up again she was staring determinedly at the table, her jaw set and her brow furrowed in concentration.

“I got your letter.” She said softly, still not looking up. He’d known that already, suspected anyway, but the confirmation didn’t make him feel any better, especially since for the life of him he couldn’t tell how she actually felt about it. He swallowed and glanced from his glass to the table and back again.

“I thought you’d just owl-”

“I-I know, I know…” she said, fiddling with the cuff of her jumper instead of meeting his eyes, “I should have, really. It’s just that I don’t have an owl, so I’d have to wait until work tomorrow, and- and I couldn’t sleep and…” she trailed off.

Draco looked at her then, really looked at her, and an irrepressible, impossible wave of affection washed over him. He was still standing up against the counter, and she looked so small sitting there at his table on the other side of the room, dwarfed by the baggy jumper she was wearing and her own chaotic curls. He knew better than to think that this made her harmless, but since the masquerade, he had been noticing how easy it was to react to her attitude and self-assuredness without any reference to the actual human being sitting there in front of him. Not that she made it easy, she still got his back up like no one else, but at some point in the last few weeks the tide had shifted, so slowly he hadn’t even noticed, and now he simply couldn’t help but see that as endearing.

“Granger,” he sighed, running his hand through his hair, “I- oh fuck, I don’t know. Look, let’s- let’s go to the sofa, ok? My feet are bloody freezing.”

“Maybe you should put some socks on then,” she said, finally looking up at him with the ghost of a grin tugging at her lip. He couldn’t help but notice that she had failed to suggest he put on a shirt, though whether this was a good sign was anyone’s guess. She stood up, and even though his feet were indeed freezing, he was rooted to the spot as he watched her disappear back into the living room, glancing back over her shoulder with a tight little smile that made him feel things that he wasn’t ready to admit to. Why couldn’t she have just sent a reply? He wasn’t expecting her to just turn up, hadn’t been planning to verbally deal with the fallout of his letter, and now he felt unnervingly unprepared. In hindsight, of _course_ he should have expected her to just turn up, but there was nothing to be done about that now, so he just sighed and followed her into the living room.

She stood there in the middle of the room, still fiddling with her cuff, and when she met his eyes he thought he saw a fleeting expression of something almost like fear cross her face, but it was gone almost immediately, replaced by an air of grim determination.

“We need to-”

“Talk, yes, so you’ve said,” he muttered, frowning, “Sit down, Granger, will you?”

“I- oh, yes. Of-of course,” she stammered, quickly looking behind her as if she hadn’t even realised the sofa was there. When she didn’t move, he took a step forward, gesturing for her to sit, and finally she did, the aged leather creaking slightly as she crossed her legs. It wasn’t even the first time she’d been here, but something about the sight of her sitting so casually in his living room was making him uneasy. Neither of them said anything for a few moments, and he soon realised that now it was him standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. He gave her a small, tense smile and hurriedly sat down in the large armchair opposite her. The sofa was huge, but even so, he didn’t think he could handle that much… closeness.

“So-”

“Yes, so I got your letter,”

“Look, Granger, I- I don’t know what you want from me, but-”

“I just-” she sighed, and for a moment time seemed to slow as Draco watched her steel herself. Her jaw set, her expression determined as she pulled herself up straighter, and when she met his eyes he found that he couldn’t look away. “I didn’t quite know how I felt, and it didn’t seem real somehow and I just-I wanted to hear it in person.”

Of course she did. Of _course_ she did. Hermione Granger tolerated no ambiguity.

“It’s not enough that you’ve got it in writing?” he asked sharply, wrenching his eyes from hers and taking a drink.

“Well, you certainly don’t seem like you enjoy spending time with me _now._ _”_ She said sharply, “Forgive me for wanting a little clarification. _”_

“Damn it, Granger, you are just fucking impossibly _infuriating_ ,” he growled. “Now who’s making things difficult?”

“Still you,” she snapped, “You started this, you moron, surely you knew you’d have to talk about it eventually?”

Something in her tone set off his temper. He knew it was a bad idea, but he had been on edge even before she got here, and somehow this was the last straw. He drained his glass and set it down on the coffee table with a satisfying clunk.

“I started this?” he said with a humourless laugh, “I must say, I didn’t expect you to shirk responsibility so quickly-”

“I am _not-_ _”_

“-Or maybe you’re feeling just a tiny bit defensive because for once in your life it was someone else who took control of the bloody situation!”

“I am not being defensive!” she hissed.

They were both on their feet now, though Draco didn’t even remember getting up.

“I can’t believe I was worried about being blunt,” he scoffed, “I should have known you’d just stomp in here like a bull in a china shop. You don’t have a single subtle bone in your body, do you, Granger?”

“Don’t talk to me about subtlety, Malfoy-”

“You are such a nightmare, I cannot fucking _believe_ I actually- actually…” he trailed off and looked away, the annoyance that had been so overwhelming just a few seconds ago dissolving into a strange, fragile sort of tiredness.

“You actually what, Malfoy?” she asked quietly.

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. She took half a step forward, but he recoiled before he could stop himself, instinctively clamping his hand over his marked forearm. It had been a purely unconscious action, but unfortunately it seemed to have only served to draw her attention to it. He didn’t know how long they stood frozen in the middle of the room like that, but it was her that broke the silence.

“Is-is that why?” Her voice was barely more than a whisper, but her words seemed to echo in Draco’s mind, and when she spoke again she sounded faraway, like he was hearing her speak through a closed door. “Why it’s hard to talk, I mean…”

He could neither confirm nor deny that. It wasn’t the _only_ reason, but he’d be lying if he said that the brand on his arm had no bearing at all on the situation. It was a tangible, _permanent_ reminder of every evil thing he’d ever done, and worst of all, he wasn’t even sure that he would remove it if he could. He was the one who had made those choices after all, and even though he regretted it all more than words could express, he wasn’t sure if he deserved that kind of clean slate. Coffee he could handle, going for coffee together once or twice and having a bit of fun didn’t _require_ a clean slate, but this… this felt like more.

“I’ll go.” She murmured, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have barged in like that. Just- lets just pretend this didn’t happen, ok?”

She hung her head and turned to leave, and once again Draco’s body acted without reference to his brain. He reached out to her, and the tips of his fingers only just grazed the edge of her jumper, but it was enough to make her stop stock still.

“Don’t,” he breathed. He might have been imagining it, but he thought he saw the tiniest bit of tension leave her shoulders as he spoke.

She turned to face him, but said nothing. The expression on her face was inscrutable, and in that moment Draco realised with devastating clarity that the only way out of this mess was through it. He took half a step forwards, then another when she didn’t object. She was so close he could make out the faintest dusting of freckles on her nose, the crease between her eyebrows as she looked up at him with something almost, but not quite defiance in her eyes, as if she was daring him to continue.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, threading a lock of her hair between his fingers. He felt her breath hitch as his knuckles brushed her jaw. “Tell me to stop, Granger, please,”

“No.”

Oh, it was definitely defiance in her eyes now. He’d half expected her to demand _why_ she should be telling him to stop, but this was better. So, _so_ much better. He swept her hair over her shoulder, leaning another centimetre closer and feeling as if he was in a very realistic dream.

“Tell me-”

“I don’t want you to stop, Malfoy,” she murmured, her breath whispering over his bare chest and making him shiver. She looked away for a second, then back to him, and the expression on her face was fear and determination and passion combined. “Draco,”

He surged forwards then, animal instinct taking over as he took her face in his hands and pressed his lips to hers with such desperate, visceral fervour that every last thought in his brain simply fizzled out. He forgot to breathe, too entranced by her warmth and the overwhelming, agonising softness of her lips against his, her skin under his fingers. They pulled apart in an explosion of breath, and it took several seconds for any kind of articulate thought to return to Draco’s mind. Unsurprisingly, Hermione’s mind was faster, and it was her that spoke first, smiling up at him shyly.

“Thank you for the clarification,” she whispered.

He blinked at her in disbelief. He should be annoyed at her, barging in here and forcing the issue when he’d tried so very hard to avoid putting pressure on either of them. He should be irritated, exasperated, and a thousand other things, but he just… wasn’t. He was already smiling, and he didn’t even care.

“So what now?”

“I don’t know,” he said, feeling strangely disconnected from reality. “I know what I _should_ do, but-”

“What do you _want_ to do?” she asked. Her voice was ever so slightly breathless, and he couldn’t help but let out a low, slightly incredulous chuckle.

Oh, the things he wanted to do…

She looked up at him, her lips parted but not quite smiling, as if she really was waiting with bated breath for his answer. He wanted to tell her every filthy fantasy he’d had about her and watch her try and stop herself from reacting, he wanted to take her to dinner at a fancy restaurant knowing that she wasn’t wearing underwear, he wanted to make her gasp and moan with just his words, then make her scream with his hands and his lips and his tongue. He wanted-

“I want you to stay,” he breathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, I've been in such a slump lately, but fingers crossed i'm out of it now and back to writing regularly :)  
> This chapter really was going to be wall to wall fluff, I swear, but Draco is just too angsty for his own good.   
> Love all of your faces xxx


	31. Sleepover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SMUT AHOY  
> NSFW

“I want you to stay.” The words fell from his lips before he had even registered the thought, but he felt the truth of it in his bones. “Stay,” he repeated, quieter this time, inclining his head so that his forehead was almost resting against hers.

“Ok,” she murmured.

He stared at her dazedly, still a little unsure that any of this was even really happening.

“I thought you had work tomorrow-”

“I’ll call in sick.”

It took him a moment to actually hear what she’d said even after the words reached his ears. The realisation that she, Hermione Granger, was happy breaking the rules for the likes of him was enough to shock him on its own. The fact that she was doing it because she actually wanted him, actually _liked_ him; that was a revelation. God, he wished he had figured out how good this felt earlier. All those years spent sleepwalking through life when he could have been doing _this._

“You are _trouble_ , Hermione Granger,” he growled.

“Well, there’s nothing at work that’s desperately urgent at the moment,” she said casually, shrugging one shoulder and seeming annoyingly oblivious to his heated tone, “I suppose I could just take some of my holiday time, I’ve got tons saved up- though it would be quite short notice-”

“Hermione?”

“-or I could always just apparate home before work tomorrow-”

“Granger!”

“Hmm?”

“Just- just _shh_ , ok?”

She blinked at him for a second, then smiled, and the sight of her made his chest feel tight.

“Ok,”

“Ok,” he murmured, and feeling that this was very much a short-term solution to her babbling, he kissed her. The kiss was also a relatively short-term solution, but it was much, _much_ more fun.

She flung her arms around his neck and sighed against his lips, sending a frisson of raw excitement through him. As she pressed herself closer he threaded one hand in her hair, the other flying to her lower back so that he could feel the full length of her body against his. The jumper she was wearing was baggy, but he discovered it was actually quite thin, and he could feel the shape of her torso under his hand. He ran his fingertips along the bottom of her ribcage, tracing down her spine and around to the soft dip of her waist, trying to take everything in at once, trying to burn every little sensation into his mind. 

He’d woken up too many times over the past few weeks from dreams just like this. Even now he half expected to wake up alone in his bed, but though his surroundings seemed wispy and insubstantial all of a sudden, he had never felt more sure of himself, and the feel of her in his arms was like stepping into a warm bath after being out in the rain. For a moment he mentally admonished himself for being so sappy, but then she clenched her hand in his hair and deepened the kiss, and suddenly he didn’t care anymore.

Kissing her was addictive, and the feel of her tongue sliding against his as she clung to his shoulders was almost enough to drive him mad right then and there, but some vestige of logical thought told him to pull back before he lost all control and just fucked her right here against whatever surface happened to be closest. When their lips parted, she let out a tiny, breathy whimper of disappointment, still holding onto him, and it took every last iota of Draco’s self control not to give in, but this time he was going to make the most of it. He was going to revel in every single second of this.

“Is this what you wanted?” he asked softly, his lips barely a centimetre from hers, “When you came here, I mean,”

“I-I’m not sure what I wanted,” she managed, giving him a small smile.

“I don’t know how I feel about you barging in here without an invitation just to seduce me,” he said in a low voice. In actuality he rather liked the idea, but he had come to realise that there wasn’t anything quite as sweet as making Granger admit something she didn’t want to. She let out a short, breathless laugh and leaned back so she could meet his eyes.

“You can’t seriously believe I came here intending to _seduce_ you,”

“Who knows anymore?” he chuckled, “I’m snogging Hermione Granger. Up is down, black is white,”

She scoffed and gave him a look, but there was no mistaking the fire in her eyes, that little spark of _trouble_ behind all the officious frustration. Merlin, she was _fun_ …

“Ok, since apparently it needs to be said; no, Draco, I did not come here just to seduce you.”

“My relief is infinite.” He said dryly, raising an eyebrow and hoping she hadn’t noticed his breath hitch when she’d said his name.

“Trust me,” she said quietly, “If I was trying to seduce you, you’d know it.”

Fuck, she was going to be the death of him.

“Oh, I remember,” he said, his voice rough and raw. Her conduct at the masquerade had been a near perfect example of a successful seduction, even if she hadn’t meant it to be. In fact, she had been so wildly successful that here he was, months later. Her lips pressed together as if she was trying to stop herself from smiling, and when she met his eyes he could see her teeth just lightly raking over her bottom lip. He wondered if she knew she was doing it.

“What?” she asked, after a moment, making Draco suddenly realise that he had been staring at her mouth like a zombie.

He should have come up with some clever comment really, but in that moment words failed him, and he just shook his head distractedly before pulling her into another crushing kiss. She responded immediately, sighing and softening in his arms 

He took a step backwards, hands firm on her waist to pull her back with him until they fell together onto the sofa. She let out a muffled yelp of what he hoped was excitement rather than annoyance, but he was kissing her again before she could object, hauling her into his lap and holding onto her hips. She obviously wasn’t too irritated, because rather than slapping him away like he might once have expected her to do, she hummed against his lips and gripped his shoulders, steadying herself so that she was straddling him properly, all the while kissing him like her life depended on it.

Her hand rested at the nape of his neck, gently flexing her fingers through his hair, and for a moment he was a little taken aback by how soft this felt, how tender, then she scraped her teeth over his bottom lip and let out a low chuckle, and then he knew that she had got the upper hand here without him even realising it.

_Un-fucking- believable_ _…._

She was unbelievable. He’d never met anyone so infuriatingly pushy, so overbearing and self-righteous that they would actually barge into someone’s house without an invitation just to demand a _clarification_. What utter bullshit- and to say she hadn’t come here for this? Bullshit. Her heavy breathing and restlessly undulating hips gave her away there though, and somehow she still had the upper hand. She was such an unbelievable nightmare, and he’d never been more turned on in his life.

The sofa had a lot of give in it, and her knees sank into the cushions on either side of his thighs, brushing her centre against his hardening cock with every tiny movement. Her other hand had fallen to his chest, her fingernails just slightly digging into his pectoral, and he wondered if it was intentional. Was she so overwrought already that she was just holding on for dear life, or did she actually like the idea of scratching him- or even _marking_ him? That would be- oh, who was he kidding- any of those would be fucking fantastic.

He nibbled on her lip experimentally and was rewarded with a deep moan from her, the soft scrape of her nails against his chest as her hand tightened momentarily. He grinned to himself, stroking up her spine until his hand was buried in her curls. She whimpered again when he broke the kiss, but her head dropped back into his hand as he kissed along her jaw, making sure to drag his teeth a little. Oh, he was going to enjoy every second of this…

“You know you’re going to leave little red marks all over my chest,” he murmured, placing a slow, open mouthed kiss to her pulse point.

“Are you complaining?” she gasped, and he grinned. So like her to be so very combative even as she could barely stop herself from moaning in pleasure.

“Not as such,” he said, still grinning as he ghosted his lips down to the juncture of her neck and shoulder, pushing her jumper and t-shirt aside. God, she was so responsive, a little gasp or shiver every time his lips touched her skin, the noises alone were enough to make him want to give up this game and just lose himself in her- but no. Not yet. He had a mission, and he really could be extraordinarily focused when he wanted to be.

He slipped his hand under her shirt, feeling the impossibly soft skin of her back under his fingers as he kissed back up her neck.

“Not exactly complaining…” he breathed, loving the way she shuddered at the feel of his breath in her ear. “It’s just a bit one-sided, no?”

“What do you-”

He bit down on her neck before she figured out what he was doing, sucking and swirling his tongue over the spot, and she let out a strangled gasp, her fingers on his chest tightening for a split second, before she came to her senses and wrenched him off her by his hair.

“What the fuck, Malfoy?” she exclaimed, trying and failing to look indignant while she was straddling him on the sofa.

“Just paying you back for last time,” he said, giving her his best wolfish grin.

“Oh for-”

“You got off easy, Granger,” he snorted, now slipping both hands under her top to pull her closer, “My neck looked like a shark had got to it- granted a very small, extremely swotty shark, but-”

“I- that was an accident,” she said, a little too haughty as her cheeks reddened ever so slightly. For a second he worried that he had actually embarrassed her, but then she gave him a tiny, reluctant half-smile and lightly smacked his shoulder. “You know I’ve got work tomorrow. You are such a little shit,”

“What happened to calling in sick?”

“I might change my mind yet.” She said tightly, narrowing her eyes at him but still grinning.

He laughed, leaning in again to kiss her again, slow and indulgent this time. She cradled his face in her hands, her hair tickling his chest and neck and sending a shiver down his spine. When they pulled apart she sighed contentedly, and despite his near painful erection, he thought that he liked that soft, happy noise more than even the wanton moans and gasps, and he _really_ liked the wanton moans and gasps.

“I-I’m really glad you’re staying,” he said quietly, and when he met her eyes he saw that she was smiling at him shyly. Hermione Granger was smiling at him _shyly_.

“Me too,” she murmured, inclining her lead towards him a little and running her hand down his chest. They were so close that he could feel the whisper of her breath over his still wet lips, and somehow this tiny sensation was more erotic than anything else that had happened tonight.

He groaned roughly and surged forwards, claiming her lips again clumsily, one hand thrust into her hair while the other slid up her spine, feeling the full length of her torso move against him as she kissed him back. He slid his tongue past her lips again and she rolled her hips against him, making him see stars for a second. He moaned into her mouth and felt her smile. Seemingly pleased with the reaction she had elicited, she repeated the motion, slower this time, dragging her centre over his cock, and suddenly he really didn’t give a shit if she had the upper hand, as long as she kept doing _that_.

“Fuck…” he hissed, both hands dropping to her arse and guiding her movements. After a while she shifted slightly, and he opened his eyes just in time to see her pull the jumper over her head, revealing a baggy white t-shirt with a fat, cartoon bumblebee flying over some daisies on it. It was so silly and incongruous with the gorgeous woman that had been grinding against his cock for the last several minutes, that he couldn’t suppress a snort of laughter, and to his relief she giggled too.

“Don’t judge me,” she said, swatting at his chest again, “I told you I didn’t come here to seduce you! I couldn’t sleep, I just threw on jeans and a jumper,”

“Clearly,” he said dryly, or at least it was his best attempt at dry. He was too turned on to manage anything so casual, since he’d just realised that she wasn’t wearing a bra.

It was quite warm in here, but without the jumper he could see her nipples peaking slightly under the thin cotton, and before he could stop himself, he had reached out to trace the shape of her breast through the shirt, watching enthralled as her eyes fluttered closed at the contact. The pad of his thumb grazed her nipple and she gasped, her hips twitching against him and her teeth sinking into her lower lip. Her hair was mostly in the way, but he could just about see the mark he’d made on her neck.

“Fucking hell, you’re gorgeous,” he breathed, but even so, he withdrew his hand, “I’m sorry, I can’t- the bumblebee is smirking at me.”

“Can’t have that,” purred Hermione, not missing a beat and giving him a crooked smile. She reached down and pulled the shirt up and over her head and holy _fuck_ , how had he never realised for all those years how brain meltingly sexy she was?

The moment she had flung the t-shirt away he was on her, hands cupping her breasts as he kissed and licked along her collarbone. He might have been imagining it, but he could swear she was getting louder, and it was doing his ego a world of good. To test this theory, he ducked his head down and took one of her nipples between his lips, just for a fraction of a second, but she moaned loudly, one of her hands abandoning his chest to fist in his hair. He did it again, thrusting up at the same time and pulling a high-pitched gasp from her. He liked that noise, so he repeated the motion, kissing and curling his tongue around one nipple, then the other and back again and again, until her head was thrown back and she was almost sobbing with need.

To his surprise, she dragged him off her, shifting her hips restlessly and panting. She held his gaze for a second, then rolled her hips, making his cock twitch and his breath catch in his throat.

His hands flew to the waistband of her jeans, fumbling with the button as she kissed him again, pressing her bare chest against his. He managed to get the button undone, then to his great disappointment she climbed off him, wriggling her hips as she pulled the jeans down, revealing plain but deliciously insubstantial kickers. He watched hungrily as she kicked the jeans away, then grabbed her hips and pulled her back down, this time twisting around and pushing her into the sofa so he could climb on top of her, plunging his tongue into her mouth and running one hand down the outside of her thigh. She wasted no time in shoving his pyjama bottoms over his hips, freeing his aching cock and wrapping her legs around his waist. One of her feet pushed his trousers away, while the other hooked under his arse, pulling them even closer together as she nibbled on his lower lip.

It was a good thing he didn’t have a job, because now he was here he wasn’t sure if he’d ever be able to muster up the self-control to stop. His awareness narrowed, and then his world was nothing but the rhythmic rocking of her hips, the slow, indulgent movement of her lips and her tongue against his. They kissed for what felt like hours, if it wasn’t still dark outside it might even have been days, and even though he was thoroughly enjoying every second of it, when she finally reached down between them to wrap her hand around his cock it was enough to make him happily let go of whatever tiny scrap of sanity he had left.

“Holy fu-”

She silenced him with a bruising kiss, squeezing him teasingly and then smiling against his lips when he let out a choked groan. He vaguely remembered wanting to watch her fall apart, whispering in her ear and caressing every inch of her until she was sobbing with need, but it seemed that she had decided that it was going to be the other way around. She started to sit up, not breaking the kiss and not loosening the maddening, sublime pressure on his dick. She pushed him back until he was sitting on his heels and she could wriggle out from under him. He settled back into the sofa, and she kept pumping him for a few seconds, but then released him. It was several seconds before he had the presence of mind to open his eyes, but when he did-

She was going to kill him.

God, the sight of her, wearing nothing but those tiny white knickers, looking at him with an expression of her face that was not entirely unlike the one she got when she knew she knew the right answer. Then she smiled and pushed her underwear down, wiggling her hips slightly until they fell to the floor.

Oh fuck, she was _actually_ going to kill him…

But what a way to go…

She delicately stepped out of her knickers, holding eye contact as she placed her hands on his shoulders and climbed into his lap. The position was the same as before, but now there was nothing separating them, and he could feel the wet heat of her against his crotch, see the goose pimples on her chest as she shivered slightly. He reached out to cup her cheek and she turned her face to kiss his palm, her tongue darting out for a split second and making him shudder. Then she gave him a tiny, lopsided grin, and an understanding passed between them.

Steadying herself on his shoulder, she shifted in his lap, lining herself up as he gripped his cock, then she lowered herself onto him, and in that moment the sense of impossible closeness was so overwhelming that he had to bite his lip to stop himself from saying something that he knew he couldn’t take back. Her lips were parted, her curls riotous around her flushed cheeks as she stared into his eyes as if she had never seen them before. His fingers itched to grip her hips so he could just mercilessly thrust up into her, but she moved first, eyelashes fluttering as she rolled her hips. Fuck, but she was-

“You’re fucking perfect,” he breathed, and the smile that spread across her face was like the rising sun. She rolled her hips again, and this time he moved with her, biting back a groan when he felt her walls clench around him. They watched each other as they moved, and the moment was almost transcendent, but it didn’t last long. She let out a short, breathy gasp and tightened her grip on his shoulders, and just like that the burning desperation was back.

He let out a low groan that was almost a growl, and lowered his mouth to her breasts again, guiding her hips as she rode him, and the time that followed was a blur of sensation that obscured any semblance of rational thought.

Her nails in the flesh of his shoulder when his teeth scraped over her nipple. Her hair and her breasts bouncing as she moved. The feel of her hips and arse under his hands as he urged her onwards, the hot, tight feel of her driving him closer and closer to what he could only assume was going to be the literal death of him.

“Oh- oh god-” she whimpered, thrusting one hand into his damp hair, “I’m close…”

He groaned breathlessly and kissed her savagely, swallowing her desperate moan. Her fist clenched in his hair and her head dropped back, her chest heaving.

“Oh- oh _Draco-_ _”_ Her words disappeared into a long, keening moan, but the glorious sound of his name on her lips was all Draco heard, and he could do nothing but hold onto her for dear life as her orgasm sent her over the edge, dragging him with her.

He saw white, and the edges of reality blurred, and if this was what madness felt like, he was ok with it. Then, as quickly as it had come, the delirium receded, and he realised that he had buried his face in her hair, saying her name again and again into the crook of her neck like a man possessed.

He let out a shaky laugh, which she echoed, and she took his face in her hands and pressed a long, firm kiss to his lips before slowly, slowly climbing off him. He groaned and shuddered as they separated, then collapsed bonelessly into the sofa, his hand feeling like lead as he pushed a strand of sweaty hair off his forehead.

“Oh my god,” murmured Hermione next to him. She sounded as wrecked as he felt.

He just hummed dazedly in agreement. He didn’t think he was capable of words right now. His limbs and eyelids felt heavy, though he was mildly regretting being sweaty and naked on a leather sofa. He wanted nothing more than to curl around Hermione’s naked body and fall asleep right here, but he sat forward a touch, and the loud, sticky noise of his back peeling away from the leather put a stop to that plan. He turned to suggest apparating to his bed, but to his surprise she was already getting up, rolling her shoulders and giving him one last, spectacular view of her backside before pulling that stupid t-shirt back on.

“I thought you were staying-” he began, his voice sounding thick and sleepy to his ears.

She looked at him for a second, surprise obvious on her face, but then she let out a quiet laugh, gave him a look like he was being endearingly stupid, then bent down to pick up her underwear from the floor.

“Where’s the loo?” she asked, one hand on her hip and the other holding her knickers at her side. “Last time I was here I was tipsy and it was dark.”

“It- first door on the left out there,” he said, feeling uncomfortably as if his brain was still working at about ten percent its usual speed.

“Right,” she said with a nod and a small smile, “Back in a mo.”

“I- ok,” he managed.

She rolled her eyes at him and turned away. He watched her cross the room, and the sight was strange, as if it was just his brain’s wishful thinking that was superimposing her image over his sitting room, which looked much the same as it ever did. When she disappeared into the hallway he was almost relieved, as it seemed that his brain was significantly less productive while sharing a room with an anything less than fully dressed Hermione Granger. He was just thinking about how he should test exactly how much clothing was required for him to be anything close to coherent around her, when she poked her head around the doorframe again, making him jump.

“Um, remember to lock to floo, would you?” she asked, slightly sheepishly, “I’d rather not have a repeat of-”

“Oh… last time, yeah,”

“Yeah,”

“Sure,”

“Ok.”

She disappeared again, and Draco retrieved his wand from the pile of clothes. He heard the bathroom door click shut and he couldn’t help but smile to himself. He muttered the charms to lock the floo, setting up another ward to keep his mother out, just in case, then he sat back on the sofa and sighed. He felt calm. No tasks, no duty, no shame.

No interruptions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... *fans self* My fluff got a bit out of hand there didn't it?


	32. Further Clarification

For the second time this week, Hermione awoke in Draco’s apartment. It was hard to believe the last time she was here was only five days ago, propelled by the tipsy momentum they had been cultivating since the moment Stella’s party had started, since the masquerade, or maybe even since before the war. Over the past few weeks, Hermione’s world-view had been well and truly rocked, and strange as it was to admit, she was more at peace with that fact than she ever would have thought. Though to be fair, the truly spectacular sex went a long way towards her acceptance of the situation.

Last night had been an emotional roller coaster, and even though the outcome was ultimately positive, by the time they collapsed together onto the sofa after she decided to stay, Hermione had felt the exhaustion flood through her body, as if whatever dam had been holding it back until she had resolved the situation with Draco had simply burst. Ignoring her tiredness had got far easier as her arousal had got more and more prominent, but by the time she padded back into the sitting room after using the loo she felt dead on her feet. Not unhappy, but definitely exhausted.

So now here she was, an indeterminate number of hours later, clad in just her t-shirt and knickers and sprawled over Draco’s sleeping form on his bed. She could feel his chest rising and falling slowly, and something about the movement was profoundly calming, like the soft, rhythmic sound of waves crashing onto the sand.

All of this still felt a bit surreal, but something had shifted last night. The way he’d moaned her name as he’d come, first a strangled groan, breathless and raw, then softening until he was murmuring it into her hair like a prayer as he clung to her. Granted, before the masquerade it had been a long while since she’d slept with anyone, but she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so utterly disconnected from the rest of her life in the best possible way. That had only lasted a little while of course, and now she was back to the hazy, unproductive worrying that usually occurred when she woke like this in the ethereal mid-point between late night and early morning. There would be hell to pay at work tomorrow, she was sure of it. It wasn’t strictly untrue that there wasn’t anything unusually important going on at work at the moment, it was all the normal tasks and projects, the same old mundane crises that defied even the most meticulous of plans, and that meant that she would almost certainly be missed. Even knowing this though, she still wanted to stay. She wanted more than she was ready to admit.

She knew it wasn’t quite morning yet, but there was a dull aura of blue, pre-dawn light around the curtains, which probably meant it was around five in the morning. A few hours of sleep yet then, a few more hours curled up in this dark, quiet sanctuary, insulated from the real world for even just a little while. She sighed, suddenly wondering what Ginny would think about all this, probably nothing good. If it were anyone else she’d be besides herself with glee that Hermione was going to bunk off work just to spend the day in bed with a man, but it wasn’t just anyone, was it? At Grimmauld Place yesterday they’d talked about a coffee date, tentative first steps and careful investigations into what a romantic relationship between the two of them might even look like… well, this was not that. She really had just wanted to hear it in person when she’d come here last night, but then she’d- well, to say they’d got a bit carried away seemed like an understatement now. Still, she supposed that technically they hadn’t done anything they hadn’t done before, and it wasn’t as if they’d made any decisions or actual changes that would affect their lives as a whole. No changes beyond staying the night and possibly taking the morning off work, anyway.

She felt him stir next to her, murmuring a few indecipherable words and stretching slightly before rolling onto his side to glance at the clock. When he rolled back he blinked sleepily at her for a second, as if he was trying to figure out if she was really there.

“Hi,” she whispered.

He smiled and laid back, gently pulling her with him, one hand on her waist as she twined her leg around him.

“I should have guessed you’d be the sort to get up at the literal crack of dawn,” he said, smothering a yawn.

“Not getting up, I just wake up sometimes,”

“I hate seeing dawn from this end…”

“Then go back to sleep,”

“Mmm…”

She felt him sigh under her, and for a moment she envied his ability to just got back to sleep so easily, but she was warm and comfortable and exhausted, and before she knew it she too was lulled back into sleep.

When she awoke the first thing she noticed was that she was alone, but just as she had started to worry that she had overstayed her welcome, Draco reappeared in the doorway, once again wearing that absurd silk dressing gown.

“Hi,” he said, and she just smiled in response as he crossed the room and sat down on top of the covers next to her. “I must say, I’m, not sure I’ll ever quite get used to seeing you in my bed like this,”

“I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to _being_ in your bed like this,” she said, giving him a small smile and sitting up, glad she was still wearing her t-shirt. She felt much more comfortable than she had last time she’d woken up in his house, but she definitely wasn’t ready to just be walking around the place with her boobs out. She made a mental note to tell Ginny that at some point when everything was a bit more normal, since she was sure it would both amuse her greatly and horrify her on a visceral level that would be quite entertaining to watch.

“Fair,” he chuckled.

“I-I think it’s a good weird though,” she said quietly, suddenly shy. He didn’t say anything for a few seconds, and when she chanced a look at him he was frowning slightly, but then he flicked his eyes to meet hers and his lip curled upwards.

“I think so too.”

They both looked away, and there were a few minutes of not quite comfortable silence.

“You know, when I said that the ball was in your court I thought you’d want to go for coffee or something,” he murmured, “This is-”

“I know, I’m sorry,” she said quietly, “I-I shouldn’t have burst in here like that-”

“No, don’t apologise,” he said with a soft chuckle, “God knows I’m not complaining after last night. I said it was your move, and you made it, in quite spectacular fashion, really. It’s only fair.”

“I suppose,”

“I should have locked the floo anyway, that’s my own bloody fault.”

“Hard to argue,” she said, giving him a small, lopsided smile.

He scoffed and rolled his eyes, and he looked down at her with a slight smile.

“Why didn’t you just send a reply with Anthe anyway?” he asked, cocking his head curiously.

“Anthe- you mean with your owl? She flew off straight away after- you do know that she delivered the message to me at _Harry_ _’s,_ don’t you?”

“Wait, what?”

“Yeah, it caused a bit of a stir actually- although it’s only Ginny that actually you know- _knows-_ ”

“What do you- wait, _what_?”

Oh… when she thought back over their conversation, she realised that she hadn’t actually mentioned Ginny or the fact that his letter had arrived during a miniature Weasley family reunion. He looked a bit pale now, even paler than usual.

“Talk about burying the lead…” he muttered, running one hand through his hair.

“I’m sorry, I just-”

“No, stop- stop apologising, Granger, I cannot handle you apologising right now.” He took a slow, deep breath and rubbed his jaw distractedly, “I wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.”

“I wasn’t expecting it either,” said Hermione, sitting down next to him with a sigh. “I’ll be avoiding cracks about my ‘secret admirer’ from the boys for weeks too.”

Draco just groaned exasperatedly at that, and Hermione got the distinct impression that he had stopped himself from making a nasty comment about Harry or Ron. Honestly, it never ended with those three, but she was in no mood to open that can of worms right now.

“How the fuck did Ginny find out?” he asked after a small pause, screwing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I think she just put the pieces together,” she said, deciding that it was probably best not to mention that Ginny had also read the letter that was almost certainly meant for her eyes only.

“What pieces?” he asked weakly, then shook his head, “No, actually forget it. I don’t even want to know. Not until I’ve had a cup of coffee anyway…”

“You’re probably right,” she said quietly, internally deeply grateful that she didn’t have to go over everything she had discussed with Ginny. It wasn’t as if it was a secret, but there was a lot of shaky, third hand information in there, and to be perfectly honest, she had had one too many awkward conversations over the last few days already. “What time is it?” she asked, stifling a yawn.

“Nearly eight,”

“Shit, I’d better tell them I’m going to be late to work,”

“Oh, I- do you want to borrow Anthe?”

“Sure,” she said slowly, but then she had the unsettling realisation that she had already been accidentally exposed by his owl once in the last day, “Actually, no, don’t worry about it. I’ll just apparate home,”

“Oh,” he said, his disappointment palpable.

“I mean, I know I said I’d call in sick yesterday, but-”

“No, it’s fine,”

“I can’t just-”

“It’s fine, Granger.”

She frowned. It didn’t sound like it was fine.

Well, there really wasn’t anything urgent going on right now, and she was in before nine most other days…

“If I apparate home in an hour or so I’ll only be half an hour late,” she said, already feeling the subtle thrill of bending the rules.

“Is that so?” he hummed, uncrossing his ankles and leaning a little towards her.

“Well, I never did get that coffee you were going to make me last time,” she said quietly, not missing the way his eyes had dropped to her lips.

“Coffee takes ten minutes.” He husked, shifting so that he could drag the covers down, exposing the tops of her thighs and using his other hand to sweep her hair over her shoulder.

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re implying,” she said innocently, barely managing to squash a giggle.

“Then let me clarify,”

He had torn the covers off her and pushed her legs apart before she had even registered him moving. She managed to push his dressing gown over his shoulders just before he shuffled out of reach, trailing his hand down her front as he nibbled the inside of her thigh.

“Keep an eye on the time,” he growled, “Can’t have you being late.”

“I- sure, but- oh _fuck_ …”

An hour later she apparated home, had a quick shower and got changed into her usual sensible trouser suit for work. She walked into her office at half past nine, apologising profusely to her boss on the way and trying to look irritable as she lied about her alarm failing this morning. She hoped this would provide adequate explanation as to why her hair was slightly more chaotic than usual and her cheeks were flushed.

She sat down at her desk chair and shut the door with a flick of her wand, a large smile spreading across her face. As she had suspected, Draco Malfoy made a really fantastic cup of coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Motivation. It never rains, but it pours.   
> Months of hideous writer's block and now my brain is just like ALL THE IDEAS.   
> Also, I ate a giant slice of chocolate cake as a small celebration when this rolled over to 30k hits. LIke, what? How is that even possible?! Love you guys.


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